I'll Be Your Shelter
by MarblePlum
Summary: Brandon and Kelly finally act on their residual feelings from the retreat, and embrace what they find in Washington. Meanwhile, Brenda and Dylan reconnect before Brenda leaves for London. Sequel to Tell It To My Heart, and influenced by s4's finale.
1. Chapter 1

**I'LL BE YOUR SHELTER**

_When there's clouds hanging in your sky_

_And they're not just letting any light in_

_And you feel like you'd like to give in_

_Don't you give up so soon_

_What you need is a friend to count on_

_What you got, baby you got someone_

_Who will stay when the rain is falling_

_And won't let it fall on you_

_I'll see you through_

_I'll cover you with a love so deep and warm and true_

_I will be there, oh_

_Honey I'll be your shelter_

_I'll be the one to take you through the night_

_Whenever you need shelter_

_I'll make everything all right_

_Make everything all right, yes_

_NA NA nana na na_

_I got arms strong enough to hold you_

_Get you through anything you go through_

_Anything that you need_

_You know it's only a touch away_

_When your heart needs a heart beside it_

_Should be mine that it's keeping time with_

_'Coz I got so much love inside it_

_It beats for you every day_

_I'll be the one_

_To give you love_

_When it seems like there's just not enough_

_Mine will be there, oh_

_Honey I'll be your shelter_

_I'll be the one to take you through the night_

_Whenever you need shelter_

_I'll make everything all right_

_Make everything all right, yes_

_NA NA nana na na_

_I'll see you through_

_I'll cover you with a love so deep and warm and true_

_I will be there, oh_

_Honey I'll be your shelter_

_I'll be the one to take you through the night_

_Whenever you need shelter_

_I'll make everything all right_

_Make everything all right, yes_

_NA NA nana na na_

**Being of a resident of an area near Washington D.C., I've always appreciated the fact that Brandon and Kelly's courtship officially started in that particular city. This fanfiction focuses on the trip Brandon took there and where Kelly met up with him. The writers themselves made a great finale with this plot (Mr Walsh Goes To Washington), but like in Tell It To My Heart, I want to fill in some blanks and hopefully look at it through a new lens. The characters of Clare and Lucinda show up briefly. Additionally, there will be a Dylan/Brenda subplot because I loved their reconnection during that season. **

**For the sake of the Brenda storyline, not only does Andrea know about Kelly's trip, but also Donna in this first scene. That's the only minor change. Hoping you'll read and review, Nikki**

**I'll Be Your Shelter is the property of Taylor Dayne.**

**Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer is the property of Nat King Cole.**

The hanger of her garment bag catches onto the handle of her suitcase, preventing her from opening the compartment with ease. Kelly groans and disengages the hanger. Her luggage is sure making things difficult, as if the trip wasn't complicated in itself. Calling around for tickets wasn't too bad. It's the earliest part of the summer, not yet Memorial Day. If it were Memorial Day, her departing flight would've been pretty packed. Her destination is known for being patriotic. Kelly smiles and reaches for her red sweater.

"Kel?" yells her female roommate from down the hall.

David, her male roomie, is probably at Mardi Gras prepping for Babyface's performance. She's sort of sorry she's going to be missing it, but her head and her heart were finally working together to get her some place else. They hadn't been on common ground for awhile now. Before today, her head would be with Dylan. She would try to reason with him, understand him, and it almost always ended up with her fighting with him. Perhaps it was because Dylan was unhappy at California University, but he'd been a downer for quite some time. He only perked up when he was with Erica, and Kevin and Suzanne, the recently married pair that she still didn't trust. She just got a phoney vibe from them but of course Dylan defended them and he had to be right. Her heart? A totally different story. It would perk up when a certain person came around. She can't pin down when it started. Maybe it was the conversations they had about how to help Andrea through her situation, or the accidental meetings here and there, or the fact that she'd sat on the deck and recalled their conversation regarding the retreat kiss every day for two months. Brandon didn't know any of this. Was his heart doing the same thing? What if that conversation was it for them? He broke up with Lucinda. What did that mean? Kelly massages her forehead. None of this ran through her mind when she actually purchased the tickets.

"There you are," says Donna, then giving her a puzzled grin. "Did I miss something?"

Donna stands by her, Kelly seeing her best friend's purple jacket and pink shirt out of the corner of her eye.

"Only a treat for myself for making it through finals," announces Kelly, doing a good job of not making eye contact.

Kelly folds her red sweater and packs it.

"Oh, so you were smart and decided to get out of here as soon as possible," remarks Donna, crossing her arms.

Donna having anything but a positive attitude is cause for concern.

"What's wrong?" asks Kelly.

"Ariel," moans Donna.

"Donna, Brenda and I told you that....," starts Kelly.

"I know, I know," interjects Donna. "It's...it's aggravating, though. She's so into David. I, for one, cannot wait until Mardi Gras is done."

"Well, it _is_ almost over," comforts Kelly.

"Let's discuss something that's not annoying, like this sudden trip, perhaps?" says Donna with a wide smile.

With a scan of the clothes in her suitcase, Donna tilts her head back and forth. Kelly shakes her head.

"Clothes aren't really cluing me in," sighs Donna. "Is...is it a city?"

"Yes," says Kelly, going to her closet.

"Paris?" cries Donna. "London? Monaco? Wichita?"

"Wichita?" exclaims Kelly, laughing.

"Toss me a crumb here," says Donna. "If you can't tell your best friend, who can you tell?"

"Hmmm, Andrea might tell, anyway. I didn't tell her to keep it secret," mulls Kelly.

Donna takes Kelly by the arm and they sit on her bed. It's not like it's an evil plan. She and Dylan weren't dating anymore, Brandon is single, and school is over. They'd have a lot of explaining to do, however. Kelly releases a deep breath and faces Donna.

"Spill it to me, sister," says Donna with a firm nod.

"I'm going to see Brandon...in D.C.," confesses Kelly, her cheeks growing warm. "I know that I just broke up with Dylan, and I know I'm taking a chance that might hurt our friendship, but I don't know. I don't want to wander 'what if'. I...I must be crazy."

"Crazy must be contagious then...because I think you should go," says Donna. "Kel, you should totally go."

"There's so much at risk, Don," sighs Kelly. "What's everybody going to think? What's Dylan going to think?"

"Sometimes risks pay off," says Donna. "I mean, I was worried about what you guys would think when I first started dating David. This guy who was a year younger and could be annoying at times...."

"At times?" teases Kelly.

"Shhh," says Donna, slapping her knee lightly. " Then, I just learned not to care. It all worked out for the best."

She can always count on Donna to give the best advice and show the most caring spirit. Kelly hugs her from the side, Donna giggling.

"_I want to hear allllll of the details_," sing-songs Donna.

"Help me figure out what to wear first," encourages Kelly. "I mean, I've been to New York, but maybe D.C. has its own fashion scene going on."

"It's still the United States, Kelly," waves off Donna. "But you should always..."

"Pack a little black dress," fills in Kelly.

"Felice Martin's number one travel rule permanently stamped in my memory," groans Donna, rolling her eyes.

As Donna starts to rifle through Kelly's closet, Kelly opens her carry-on bag and retrieves the ticket. A round-trip ticket to Washington D.C. Brandon would have no idea that she was coming. She hopes he'll think for himself, that he'll think it's a pleasant surprise. The rest of her worries would have to wait until she returned home, hopefully with him.

"Florals, for the spring," says Donna, pulling out two dresses.

"I think I'm going to love Washington," murmurs Kelly, slipping her ticket into her pocket.

II.

_Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer  
Those days of soda and pretzels and beer  
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer  
Dust off the sun and moon and sing a song of cheer_

Dylan accepts the root beer from the vendor, sighs after taking a sip. The California University Glee Club surrounds him in their long-sleeved white shirts, maroon vests, and black slacks as they sing the familiar summer anthem. Well, not familiar to him. In fact, none of this is familiar and the only reason he was here was because his younger sister Erica desperately needed a good time.

Erica was moving in a couple days, to Orange County with her parents. Kevin would be scoping out the territory for their new business, and despite being excited about the prospect of how far they could take it, Dylan hates that they'll be living somewhere else. Yes, he knew Erica wouldn't stay with him forever. But there was no harm in wishing it was for a longer period of time.

She is handed a large soft pretzel, the salt covering her petite fingers. She's less petite now. There must have been a growth spurt that he missed when she wasn't around. He can't believe how tall she's getting. Soon enough, she'd be a teenager and he'd have to chase away guys that weren't good for her. Nah, he wouldn't be that overprotective...unless the guy seemed like a real jerk.

"Had my first pretzel at Disneyland," shares Erica.

"No!" says Dylan playfully.

"Yes!" insists Erica. "They're so good. Let's see. I've had cotton candy, a hot dog, popcorn..."

"If Suzanne asks who gave you all that, don't say it was me," says Dylan.

"Pinkie swear," promises Erica.

They link pinkies and mentally swear.

"Or you could just blame me," speaks up someone behind them. "Get your brother off the hook."

"Oh," says Dylan with relief. "I thought you were a Glee Club member that I had to strangle."

"No such luck," says Brenda, shrugging.

Dylan takes in Brenda, smiling a bit. Her glossy brown locks were in two small pigtails, her curvy frame in overalls with a white T-shirt underneath. Her eyes were still sharp and bright, like when he met her. She could always pierce him with those eyes. He'd be reminded of their history, almost forget how turbulent their relationship was, but never forget how she was there for him when things got bumpy.

"Are you guys enjoying Mardi Gras?" questions Brenda.

"I am!" says Erica excitedly.

_Just fill your basket full of sandwiches and weenies  
Then lock the house up, now youre set  
And on the beach youll see the girls in their bikinis  
As cute as ever but they never get em wet_

"You might want to ask me at a different time!" yells Dylan over the singing.

The Glee Club trade knowing glances and strut to the side, away from them. He wouldn't have done them any bodily harm. They just needed to sing somewhere else. Man.

"Dylan, we didn't do the bumper cars yesterday," says Erica. "And this is my last day here."

"We didn't," recalls Dylan.

"Brenda, I have enough tickets for you to ride too," offers Erica.

"I was supposed to meet Donna, but I guess she went home for a quick nap," says Brenda, looking at Dylan briefly.

Is she checking to make sure it's okay? She didn't have to check.

"Come on, Bren," says Dylan, stroking Erica's hair. "Give this little speed demon a run for her money."

"If you do it, too," suggests Brenda. "May not be a Porsche or a Rolls, but I would think if any ride would get you involved, it'd be that one."

Bumper cars? He's all for watching others crash into each other, and speed around the metal parameters, but him? He thought he'd kick back with his root beer and let Erica run amok.

"Erica...Erica has to finish her pretzel," points out Dylan.

Without delay, Erica stuffs the rest of the pretzel into her mouth and chews with effort. Brenda grins and high-fives his sister. Dylan produces a low moan.

"You can be less than cool for two minutes," says Brenda.

"Please don't," protests Dylan.

Brenda and Erica take him by the hands, leading him forward. He feels like switching places with Steve and being dumped in the dunking booth. The pool would cool him in this heat, that's for sure. The ticket taker receives three tickets and Erica swiftly runs to a red car parked at the other end. He should've known. It was the shiniest of the cars. He can't blame her. He has a thing for shiny cars too.

That, and dark hair getting caught in the wind. Soft summer breezes shift Brenda's bangs as she gets into a green car. Dylan opts for a blue car next to hers, realizing that the other empty cars are being filled fast by other Mardi Gras visitors.

"So what are you doing this summer?" asks Brenda as Dylan straps himself inside the car.

"Setting up shop with Kevin, most likely," answers Dylan. "He's going first, settling in with Suzanne."

"Is Kelly paying a visit to Orange County?" says Brenda.

Kelly. He was kind of hoping to avoid that name for as long as he could. The break-up was definitely coming. How could it not after all those arguments and awkward silences? The writing was definitely on the wall. It was like she wanted him to be a totally different person. He didn't fit in with her sorority friends or her college friends. Wasn't the West Bev gang their true friends? They were less fake certainly. That's where he fit in, and he wasn't too interested in anybody else. It was a leap of faith to trust Kevin and Suzanne, yeah, but that was mainly for Erica.

"It's been a week since we split, and a week since we've talked," admits Dylan.

"Sorry I asked," says Brenda.

"No, you're not," counters Dylan, grinning. "Admit it."

Brenda stares ahead, her teeth showing under her top lip.

"Have to keep my eyes on the road," says Brenda, grasping the wheel.

"Need I remind you that you're not the best driver, Bren," says Dylan. "And I'm not sorry I said that."

"I'm coming for you, McKay," guarantees Brenda.

"Like to see you try," argues Dylan, as the cars buzz into motion.

"Dylan!" yells Erica, waving an arm madly.

A flurry of cars bypass Erica, as she drives in the direction of Dylan and Brenda. Brenda squeals and manages to go right past her. Dylan slams his foot against the accelerator, surprised how it moves very much like a real car. He chuckles and goes after Erica, who bumps into a young boy in a black car. The young boy steers his car clear of Erica's as Dylan grows closer. Then, wham, he's hit. Dylan turns his head and spies a brunette pigtail and a pale neck.

"Walsh!" cries Dylan.

"That one's for Erica!" proclaims Brenda, going to his right.

He chuckles and follows Brenda, wind whipping his face. The majority of the cars were flanking him, making it near impossible to hit Brenda from behind. He'd have to hit her right in the nose of the car if he's going to do it. Dylan bumps into a silver car and a red car, driven by two freckled twins. Great, he realizes. I'm stuck. The boys go in reverse, then start trying to attack each other. Dylan scans the space for Brenda and Erica. There isn't a lot of time left. He can view the ticket taker's hand going towards the lever to freeze all of the traffic.

Suddenly, his form falls forward as both Brenda and Erica manage to land in one last hit. Dylan hits the staring wheel, laughing softly.

"Girl power!" says Brenda, knocking knuckles with Erica.

"Yes!" adds Erica.

Dylan undoes his seatbelt as the whistle sounds and the cars click off.

"I want both of you ladies' insurance information," says Dylan, stepping out of the car.

"Going again!" shouts Erica, going to get in line once more.

"Well, I'm spent," admits Brenda, taking off her seatbelt.

He offers his hand to her as she gets out of the car. Brenda clumsily leaves the car, managing to grip Dylan's arm for support. They grin at one another and Brenda straightens herself.

"Let's...um, let's go watch Erica," suggests Brenda.

"Uhhh, right," says Dylan, following her off the track.

They situate themselves on the sidelines, viewing Erica race onto the track for the same red car. He's glad she's getting a kick out of this. It was funny, but every now and then, he could swear that Erica still didn't like Kevin. She barely talked to him when the four of them were together. In comparison, Erica was a chatterbox with Dylan. Maybe Kevin took getting used to. Kelly wasn't exactly blown away by him.

"You guys have the same smile, by the way," says Brenda, gesturing towards Erica.

"Think so?" says Dylan. "Yeah, I guess...I guess we do."

"It's great that you have a family now," says Brenda. "I was really worried about you last year, Dylan. The way Jack left. A year later, and here you are."

"Bren, you don't have to be so worried, you know?" insists Dylan. "It's nice, but not necessary."

"I know, but it's kind of a habit," says Brenda, simply and softly.

Dylan clears his throat. They weren't past the point of worrying about each other. He knows that he was worried when Brenda suddenly announced that she was going to marry Stuart in Vegas. While he understood why (Brenda's love of the romantic, of the theatrics), it wasn't something he thought should happen. Why? That's a question he continues to ask himself. Whatever the answer was to that lead him to go get her in Palm Springs. She was frightened, alone, and sought him out. He couldn't disappoint her, no matter what Kelly thought it meant. He was glad she called. He is glad she called.

"The habit's mutual," assures Dylan.

"Good," says Brenda, elbowing him.

III.

"Ohhhhh," groans Brandon, flipping to the other side of the bed.

The alarm clock continues to beep, the White House paperweight slowly coming into his foggy sight. Brandon raises the comforter of his bed and stares out of his window.

"Why no, Brandon Walsh," says Brandon to himself. "You are not so high up there that you can catch up on your lack of sleep due to the time difference. Instead, you've missed breakfast and will be lucky to locate a piece of dry toast."

If only he can tell himself that he didn't dream about the two females that were making this trip to Washington D.C. so memorable, for the wrong reasons. No, he did not dream that past flame-slash- anthropology professor Lucinda Nicholson and high schooler-slash-opportunist Clare Arnold were in bed with him, discussing the future of his love life. That was some other poor sap. Brandon lets his head fall to the pillow to nail in the fact that that was the truth. It was the truth. He dreamed about them in this bed and they were at the hotel this morning...for real. Brandon sluggishly stands and turned the alarm off.

Depending on the events of the day, he'd try and get a hold of Andrea and see how she and Jesse were doing. He didn't like leaving his friends when things were so touch and go for the baby, but they probably did have to have some time to themselves. The other girl that he hated leaving didn't know that he hated leaving her. He kept that to himself. Since the retreat, and the conversations following the retreat, he's tried to keep the memories he's had with her at arm's length. He meant it when he said he wouldn't push. Kelly was an amazing woman but she wasn't his girlfriend. She wasn't even his girlfriend when they were faking it.

One thing was for certain. He couldn't fake it with Lucinda anymore. He grew so tired of her games. The emotional part had faded and the physical side was less satisfying because of it. Brandon was sick of lying, and sick of pretending that something was there to salvage. His "pretend" girlfriend was the girl he wasn't pretending with. It reached its height when he could barely be in the same room with Dylan and Kelly for more than a few minutes. The memory of the kiss would return, as would hoding her in his arms. He didn't like the touching or the kissing or the usual couple things that Dylan and Kelly had every right to do. Throwing himself into his work, it paid off. Brandon would be meeting President Bill Clinton tomorrow with the rest of the Task Force Iniative. Jim and Cindy vowed to be glued to the television screen, and Brenda said she'd tune in too if he brought her home a souvenir. Twin sisters. They always came with conditions. Brandon puts on his socks as a steady knock sounded on the door.

"Hello?" calls Brandon, his feet now covered.

"Room service," calls someone from behind the door.

Hmmm, they must have the wrong room. Brandon ran a hand through his hair, sure that it's not its neat, well-styled self. Eh, you don't have to look your best when telling someone they've got the wrong room. Brandon opens the door. There's a cart with a linen tablecloth, two grey covered dishes, a coffee pot, utensils, and napkins. Whatever is underneath smells delicious. Washington D.C. cooks were clearly as good as West Coast chefs.

"Morning," says the waiter, whose nametag reads Michael.

"I didn't order any room service, sorry," says Brandon.

"No," says a clear, sweet voice. "I did."

Her red lips go from ear to ear in a nervous smile, blonde hair bound in a thick ponytail, her red floral dress falling to her ankles. Her skin's so soft and smooth that he's wondering if she's a dream too.

"Kelly?" says Brandon, his eyes widening.

"Surprise," says Kelly cheerfully.

"I'm assuming this is the right room?" says Michael.

"Oh yeah, yeah," replies Brandon. "Come on in, Mike."

"Thank you, sir," says Michael.

Brandon holds the door open for Michael as he wheels in the table, Kelly in tow. No words are exchanged, because he's not sure what to say. Kelly Taylor is in Washington D.C., presumably to see him? What did he miss? Well, he missed her, no doubt about that. Brandon glances in the mirror while Kelly's back is turned. Ugh, his hair won't cooperate with a lack of product. He spots Michael and Kelly's reflections staring at him. Brandon laughs good-naturedly as his cheeks go red.

"I...I just got up," informs Brandon, more apologetically to Kelly than to the other guy in the room.

"Lovely, sir," says Michael. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"That should do, Michael," says Kelly, presenting him with a tip. "Thank you."

"Thanks, Michael," says Brandon.

Michael leaves them with a short nod, closing the door. Kelly pats down the top of her hair. Hers isn't messy. Brandon slowly sits in a chair and tries to read her expression. She has to be here for a reason. You don't fly to the other side of the country just for kicks or just to have breakfast. Well, she isn't sad so Andrea and the rest of their friends must be okay. She's calm so she must not be in some sort of trouble. There are no signs he can read.

"So...how are you, Brandon?" asks Kelly, walking to the table to pour some coffee into her cup.

"Uh, right now?" says Brandon. "Pretty...the word astonished would sum it all up."

"Oh," says Kelly.

She presents the coffee to Brandon, who thanks her and drinks it.

"How I like it," identifies Brandon.

"I remember things from our Task Force adventures," assures Kelly, her cheeks getting a little flushed.

His cheeks were becoming the same color. He better ask then or there, or never have the nerve.

"Am I correct in thinking that you're here for me and not for the Cherry Blossom Festival?" says Brandon. "If it's for the Festival, you're a little late."

Kelly laughs. "That'd be a hard pill to swallow if I was, but I'm not here for the Festival."

She drapes herself in the chair opposite him, Brandon wondering if he should continue. Kelly goes on instead.

"I don't know, Brandon," says Kelly. "Maybe you being out of town makes you more attractive to me."

"Oughta go out of town more often," muses Brandon.

Kelly throws a stationary pen at him, Brandon chuckling.

"Whatever you're doing here, I'm...I can't tell you how happy I am to see you," says Brandon, setting the pen down and staring into her eyes. "You're...a breath of fresh air."

"Same here," says Kelly.

It's said with easiness and earnestness, and for that, he's come not to care.

"I'm going sight-seeing today," announces Brandon.

"That's fine," says Kelly. "I figured you'd be busy."

"Yep, very, very busy," says Brandon. "I have to show this gorgeous California girl with a red purse the ins and outs of our nation's Capitol. Should take most of the day."

Kelly smiles and shakes her head. Brandon finishes his coffee and stretches his arms when he stands.

"I have a guidebook," informs Kelly, standing and removing the book from her purse.

"Men don't ask for directions," kids Brandon.

She taps him in the stomach with the guidebook. Brandon holds it and flips through the pages. It's a pretty dense guide and Kelly has highlighted a few things. She must've really wanted to come. He puts an arm around her, her ponytail brushing his neck.

"Look who did her homework," remarks Brandon.

"It's called being prepared," says Kelly. "And I thought you were a Boy Scout. Isn't that you guys' motto?"

"Hey, I know how to find things just by looking at the stars," defends Brandon.

"So you won't need this then," says Kelly, reaching for the guide.

"What are you, crazy?" teases Brandon. "This city's totally confusing."

Kelly squeals as Brandon dangles the guide above her, both of them laughing as they fall and tumble to the couch.

IV.

Brandon may have been right about this city being confusing. When he parted the door, there were instant goosebumps prickling her skin, an increase in her heart beat, all those small indicators that he was becoming more than a friend. How to explain them, though? She tried her best to be casual under strange circumstances. If she were him, she'd want to know immediately. But Brandon wasn't like that. Thank God Brandon wasn't like that.

"I'm going to tell Donna how much gel you use," says Kelly as they board the elevator. "Brenda already knows, I bet."

"Don't you dare," says Brandon, pressing the button for the ground floor.

The elevator doesn't go very far, stopping at the next floor. Brandon scrunches his nose as a girl they know all too well smiles at them. Her hips swing from side to side as she gets on, the fabric of her leather mini shiny and tight.

"Brandon!" greets Clare.

"Oh, Brandon's on there?" says Chancellor Arnold, jogging to them. "Would you mind holding it?"

"And...and Kelly?" remarks Clare.

"Hey, Clare," says Kelly wearily. "Good morning, Chancellor Arnold."

"Isn't this a wonderful surprise?" says Chancellor Arnold, shaking Kelly's hand.

"The most wonderful, sir," chimes in Brandon.

"What are you doing here?" asks Chancellor Arnold.

Um, does she really want to share the answer to that? Brandon smiles at her sheepishly. Clare looks her up and down with interest.

"We're going sight-seeing, Chancellor Arnold," provides Brandon.

"You're in for a treat," says Chancellor Arnold. "I love this city. Hey, how about we make it a foursome?"

Kelly tries to mask a frown by fixing the sleeve of her dress, Brandon managing a weak grin. The retreat is one thing. The Chancellor was supposed to be there. The president of their university joining in on what she'd like to be private time? Not so....appealing.

"We've...we've planned the whole day, sir," says Brandon. "Maybe next time."

"Oh, you can't fool me," remarks Chancellor Arnold. "You two want to be alone."

Brandon and Kelly exchange a long look, and nod at the Chancellor.

"You guys make a handsome pair," proclaims Chancellor Arnold. "Don't you think so, Clare?"

"Yeah, whatever," offers Clare.

"Just handsome," says Chancellor Arnold. "Hit D for the dining room, sweetheart."

Clare hits the button and starts to study her nails. Kelly only notices this briefly, as she tries to hold in a laugh that's aching to get out of her body. Brandon coughs, clearly covering his own amusement.

"Have fun," says Chancellor Arnold, guiding Clare out of the elevator.

The elevator closes, leading them to the lobby. Kelly finally lets the laugh go.

"Handsome...handsome pair," breathes Kelly. "Wow."

"We do make a handsome pair, Kelly," insists Brandon as the doors flutter open.

Brandon puts on his sunglasses, making her laugh a little more. They head to the hotel entrance.

"Right?" says Brandon.

"Right," says Kelly, as they start on the streets of Washington.


	2. When I Think Of You

**II. When I Think Of You**

_Ooh baby, anytime my world gets crazy  
All I have to do, to calm it  
Is just think of you_

_'Cause when I think of you, baby  
Nothin' else seems to matter  
'Cause when I think of you, baby  
All I think about is our love_

I_ just get more attached to you when  
You hold me in your arms, and squeeze me  
And you leave me making me blue_

_'Cause when I think of you, baby  
Nothin' else seems to matter  
'Cause when I think of you, baby  
All I think about is our love_

_So in love  
(So in love)  
Ooh  
(So in love)  
With you  
(So in love)  
Baby  
(So in love)  
Ooh  
(So in love)  
Hee  
(So in love)  
With you  
(So in love)  
(So in love)_

_When I think of you  
When I think of you  
When I think of you  
When I think of you_

_Bass  
I'm so in love  
I just think of you  
If you're not around  
Oh  
When I think of you_

_(So in love)  
Ooh  
(So in love)  
So in love  
(So in love)  
With you  
(So in love)  
Baby you  
(So in love)  
Ooh  
(So in love)  
So in love  
(So in love)  
With you  
(So in love)  
Break._

_(Ooh, ah, ooh, ah, cha, ooh, ah, ooh, ah, chaow!)_

_Ah!  
Hahahaha!  
Feels so good  
When I think of you  
Yeah-e-yeah_

When I Think Of You is the property of Janet Jackson.

**AN: Sorry for the delay. Really, I am. This whole story takes place during that whole Mardi Gras weekend. The Dylan/Brenda story is operating on a different timeline than Brandon/Kelly but it's all in the same weekend. Thanks.**

Everything is almost done. It's not nearly the Fourth of July, but for some unknown reason Jim and Cindy Walsh have insisted on barbequing tonight. The weather is being cooperative so it's no chore to do it, but Brenda has more packing to do before the week's over. After all, this isn't for a weekend visit to Minnesota or one of the gang's camping trips; this is for a three month stint in London with the Royal Academy. What if great things happen there?

At the same time, what if great things will happen between her and Dylan? She did her best not to pry into the break-up, having been in the thick of things in the past. Call her crazy, but she didn't exactly relish reliving those lonely nights alone, seeing Dylan and Kelly across the West Bev quad, and dancing with Dylan at prom only to lose him to Kelly for the rest of that night. Finding the strength to endure all of those instances came from somewhere. She liked to think she was strong, but she didn't know she was _that_ strong. Forgiveness is one of the hardest things to give someone, but it's also the most rewarding. Cutting Kelly and Dylan out of her life wouldn't make her feel any better, especially Dylan, not after everything they've been through. When they were next to each other near the bumper cars, it confirmed it for her. Dylan isn't someone to lose. He's someone to keep.

Brenda tosses two dresses on hangers onto her bedspread. Mr. Pony tumbles down the pillowcase, next to her script for _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ and her first dramatic technique textbook. All three were sentimental to her, but she'd made the decision to leave Mr. Pony with the Walshes. She's nearing nineteen and she couldn't bring him to a professional place like the academy. Maybe she could lend him to Donna. She'd always admired him.

"Brenda!" calls Cindy from downstairs. "Could you set the table?"

Sighing, she reluctantly leaves her room. Perhaps her parents were preventing her from finishing packing because they wanted her to change her mind about which day she was going to go. She was going four days early, just to become familiar with the city. Her father started listing all the neighborhoods she should stay away from after one of his business associates told him. While her mother was more game for Brenda to go, every now and then, she'd have this wistful look on her face and smile sadly at her daughter. Brandon was so buried in Task Force matters that she barely got to see him, but he promised he'd be there for them to say a proper Walsh twin good-bye.

"How much have you gotten done?" asks Cindy as soon as Brenda steps into the kitchen.

Two salads, ready to be eaten, are sitting on the counter, with bottles of Ranch dressing next to the bowls. The plates they often use for company are stacked to the right of the salads.

"Not a lot," replies Brenda. "Can I ask why we're doing this?"

"You always love our barbeques," says Cindy.

Correction. She always loved _their_ house barbeques, because those were spent with her friends. Even then, Brandon enjoyed them more. He could eat and eat and _eat_, yet maintain his good figure. She hates that.

"I'm not exactly in the mood this time," says Brenda.

"You came in from Mardi Gras cheerful," notes Cindy. "What happened between now and then?"

Brenda touches her earring, feeling the light jewelry swing to and fro. This isn't the earring she remembers, that makes her frown as the smell of hickory floats in from the backyard. When she came in, the smell reached her nose and she was instantly reminded of a time when she hated barbeques. She and Dylan were preparing for a big blow-out barbeque at his house the summer before senior year. Brenda set down the brown grocery bag on Dylan's couch and saw an earring in between the cushions. Well, it wasn't the earring that got between them. Kelly's bauble sent a wave of suspicion, true, but she didn't know it was Kelly's. Dylan denied it, lied and said it was his mom's, and Brenda believed him. Thinking back, that barbeque should've sent more red flags up than it did. She hasn't liked barbeques since.

"Nostalgia," says Brenda, shrugging. "We both know how sentimental I can get."

"A great tool for your acting," says Cindy.

"Mom, I figured that out a long time ago," says Brenda, smiling.

They both laugh, Brenda setting about getting the forks. She put three on top of the plates, then carried the load to the table. Her mother had put down the red and white checkerboard tablecloth. Her parents could be so American sometimes. Something about it is charming, though. It reminds her of the simpler Minnesota days, when everything in her life wasn't so complicated. Who knows? Maybe she'd miss that too when she went to jolly old England. She should be jolly. Yes, this is going to be a great summer for her. She shouldn't be moping around. Brenda shakes her head.

"I'm actually starving," says Brenda good-naturedly.

"Good," says Cindy, going over to kiss Brenda on the forehead.

Jim enters from the back door, steam floating up from a plate of baby back ribs. The steam passes his balding head. He wears red mitts and a _Tip the Cook, _red apron. This elicits a laugh from Brenda.

"That's new," says Brenda.

"Jim, where did you get that?" groans Cindy.

"Bought it by myself," answers Jim. "What, you kids can buy jeans with holes in them and I can't buy this?"

"Well-played, Dad," says Brenda, patting his back. "Well-played."

Cindy looks defeated and fetches salad tongs.

"Thank you," says Jim.

The doorbell rings, interrupting their fashion discussion. Brenda's happy to get the door. She's almost afraid that they'll start discussing her past ensembles next. Brenda opens the door to a guy who's seen her in almost every outfit she currently owns.

"Dylan!" she cries.

"Sorry, wrong address," says Dylan, looking over his shoulder. "I was looking for a cat on a hot tin roof."

"Yeah, she's out for the evening," kids Brenda, smiling. "I guess I'll have to do."

"Beggars can't be choosers," jokes Dylan, coming inside.

She said goodnight to him and Erica at Mardi Gras, so she didn't expect to see him anymore today. Suzanne's marriage to Kevin is tomorrow so she thought he'd be resting at home.

"What are you doing here?" questions Brenda.

"I kinda need you," replies Dylan.

Needs her? Needs her for what? Brenda takes a deep breath.

"See, I wrote this toast...for the wedding," continues Dylan. "And I'm not sure it's gonna fly. It's just...missing something."

Oh, a toast, for the wedding. Of course that's it.

"Let me tell my parents and we can sit out on the porch," offers Brenda.

"Considering the way Jim feels about me, that's a pretty good idea," says Dylan.

Her father and Dylan weren't on speaking terms and she doesn't exactly know why. She knows it involves Dylan's money and Kevin, but that's basically it. Brenda walks to the kitchen, Jim and Cindy putting condiments onto the table.

"Dylan's here and...," begins Brenda.

"Dylan?" moans Jim, then looking to his left. "Well, him dropping by at this time isn't inconvenient in the least."

"Jim, it's only eight," says Cindy.

"And we're about to eat," points out Jim. "But...he's your friend."

"He is," remarks Brenda, throwing Jim a steely glance. "And I'm pretty sure a little common courtesy isn't too much to ask for. After all, that's how I was raised."

Giving her father a pointed look, which makes him sigh and untie his apron, Brenda returns to the foyer. Dylan holds a small piece of white paper in his hand. Even from the back, Brenda can tell there were some cross-outs and other small revisions. She takes Dylan's other hand and leads him to the porch. They sit under the hazy golden light cast from above.

"I almost wish Kevin had another best man," groans Dylan.

"Was there anybody else?" says Brenda.

"That's it," says Dylan. "I don't really know him well enough to know if there's anybody else."

"Well, you've seen him with Suzanne. That's what really matters," assures Brenda.

"That's what I tried to capture," says Dylan. "So, want to hear it?"

Brenda nods and lowers her hands to the sleek surface of the porch. Dylan clears his throat and begins to read.

"I've only been a part of Kevin and Suzanne's lives for a short period of time. However, their connection is timeless and will most likely last forever. Cheers to the happy couple."

Looking skyward, Brenda taps her mouth and stares at Dylan for a few seconds.

"Man, it's horrible," laments Dylan.

"No...no, it's not," consoles Brenda. "It's pretty...pretty short."

"Suzanne asked for one page, and I kinda made the words big," admits Dylan, showing Brenda the paper.

Brenda chuckles. The word 'timeless" takes up half the page.

"Maybe I'm...I'm just down on love," muses Dylan. "Like...love never works out."

The glow of the light shines on her knees as Brenda lifts them to her chest. Boy, did that thought sound familiar. She was dating, engaged, and Vegas wedding-bound this year in the blink of an eye. Stuart seemed so perfect. But he was only perfect because they were both so lost. She wanted a happy ending, though to truly be happy, she would've had to love that person unconditionally. This wasn't in the cards for her and Stuart. She'd been an incurable romantic who was cured of their fantasy once reality set back in and she barely talks to him anymore. Let the dead stay dead, she supposes. It really has, in a way, because she hasn't dated anyone since, not seriously.

"You know how they say Paris is the most romantic city in the world?" says Dylan.

Her Paris adventures were somewhat romantic, until they followed her home in the form of Rick. Bleh, she hated having that French accent for long.

"Kelly and I...pretty much fought the whole time once we left," shares Dylan. "Other parts of France weren't so romantic. It never was the same again. What if it couldn't be?"

Brenda stays silent as Dylan stares ahead at the end of the driveway where his car is parked. Couldn't be? Was it the guilt, because of her, that weighed down his relationship with Kelly, or was it another matter entirely?

"What if?" he murmurs.

"Dylan, everybody's story is different," says Brenda. "In fact, that's what makes love so interesting. There's twists and turns, and you don't usually know how it'll go."

"How am I going to write about that?" says Dylan.

"You're an amazing writer."

"Not as amazing as you are an actress, Bren."

The compliment is met by Brenda's skin growing hot, a heat more felt than anything radiating from the porch light.

"Trust your talent," offers Brenda. "And when you do get up to speak, just picture everyone in their underwear. Well, everyone you want to."

Dylan laughs, smiles at her.

"Bren, we really ought to do Paris sometime," says Dylan after a few seconds of silence.

She hasn't told him about the academy, not at all, not yet. Though Dylan won't be in L.A. either, the distance between L.A. and Orange County, and L.A. and London is vastly different. Well, anyway, he might be too busy with his business to notice she was gone. They'd only just started hanging out regularly after the whole Stuart thing. But yes, weeks from tonight, she'd be up for another night with him in a place where they've never been together.

"What if we fight during our trip, too?" says Brenda.

"We wouldn't," says Dylan confidently. "I'd like to think it'd be like Baja. There'd be some little disagreements, and more croissants, but by the Eiffel Tower, we'd be on the same page."

Brenda chuckles. "Okay. Then, I'm sold."

"Wonder how Jim Walsh would react if I whisked you away," says Dylan, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

"Sacre bleu!" cries Brenda.

They grin. Dylan places the paper into his pocket and stands. Brenda stands too, almost hating to do it.

"Hey, uh, I could stop by and see how the toast went," suggests Brenda. "What time is the wedding over?"

"Four," answers Dylan. "Yeah, come by my house at six. I mean, if you're not doing anything."

"Alright," says Brenda.

"So til next time, _les grandes pensees viennent du coeur_," says Dylan.

Scratching her head, Brenda shrugs, staring at him in disbelief.

"Look it up, Maggie," says Dylan, beaming as he climbs into his car and speeds off.

Maggie, her character from _Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. _Chances are she wouldn't have known the meaning either. Brenda wishes she herself knew, knew the language that well, knew the reason for her heart rolling and shuddering in her chest, knew why she couldn't move from the glow of the light.

II.

Pink cherry blossoms skid across the sidewalk, before their four feet touch the lines. Buildings of white marble hang above their heads. The sky is clear, blue, and without a trace of a cloud. It's like Beverly Hills has followed them. That's not to say he knows Washington D.C. weather well. It was way more unpredictable than Minnesota in winter, and L.A. in spring. They just lucked out, he guesses.

Once they left the hotel, Brandon took his arm away from her. They were in this weird limbo phase. When they were casual friends, he had no qualms about wrapping an arm around her shoulders or giving her a quick peck on the cheek. He did the same for Andrea, Donna, Brenda, any of his platonic female friends or relatives. But now Kelly isn't a platonic, pretty girl. She wouldn't have hopped on a plane that flew to him if they were simply platonic. So, now under the awning on a restaurant where they stopped for a bite to eat, he's keeping his hands to himself.

"Okay, the lady at the counter was kind enough to point me in the general direction," says Kelly, exiting with a scone and her guidebook.

He no longer keeps his hands at bay, brushing off a few crumbs that had fallen from the wrapped scone onto her red sweater. Kelly grins shyly.

"Bleh, I'm gross," laments Kelly.

"I don't expect you to be perfectly spotless every second,' says Brandon. "Just...every other second."

"Do you expect me to be a good guide?" returns Kelly, playfully swinging back and forth. "You trust me?"

"You're the girl that got me to pose for a beefcake calendar," reminds Brandon. "If that didn't show full trust then..."

"Deep down, you loved every second of it," says Kelly with a firm nod.

"Don't we have somewhere to be?" says Brandon.

"Avoidance thy name is Brandon," replies Kelly.

She dramatically fluffs out the map once she removes it from the guidebook. Brandon reads several street names as Kelly drags her finger along the coordinates. They are near the Capitol, the center of the greatest attractions. Their first stop, they decided, would be the Lincoln Memorial. Brandon fessed up that besides Kennedy, Lincoln was his favorite president. Kelly insisted that they should go since she had just suddenly shown up and might've thwarted any plans Brandon really had for the day. Actually, he hadn't had any plans. He would've probably bummed around the hotel, checked out the pool, and mailed a couple postcards. Those plans weren't nearly as enticing as spending the day with her.

"Let's get walking," says Kelly.

They walk a few paces, but are interrupted by a high-pitched whistle. The whistle is from a man, with a baseball cap and a Baltimore Orioles T-shirt on, parked in front of an easel. The man is around his father's age and staring at Kelly. Brandon kind've liked the Orioles but that didn't mean the guy would get off for showing no class. Kelly glanced at Brandon quickly.

"Excuse me, but I didn't know manners were out of style, sir," says Brandon, frowning.

"Oh...they're...they're not," stammers the man. "Only, it's been a long morning, and I saw a golden opportunity with you two."

Wrinkling his brow, Brandon is completely lost, until Kelly beams at him.

"Brandon," she says.

Kelly nods at the display of caricatures, with their oversized heads, ruler-sized smiles, and chalk-drawn clothes. So that's why he whistled? Brandon holds up a hand apologetically.

"Sorry, sir," says Brandon.

"No, I'd do the same if it was my wife," assures the artist. "How long have you guys been together?"

Rather than reply, Kelly bites into her scone and Brandon offers a gentle laugh.

"Lemme guess," says the artist. "You guys look like...six-monthers at least. The honeymoon-ish stage?"

How to answer that question? Brandon shrugs.

"This is our first real vacation together," supplies Kelly as she finishes her scone.

Brandon and Kelly both smile at the artist, Brandon sorry he didn't have the nerve to grant a smile to Kelly. She came up with a better answer than he could've. This is their first vacation as...as, well, whatever they're going to be.

"See?" says the artist. "I could tell by those glowy looks. I'm Lenny."

"Kelly," returns Kelly.

"Brandon," speaks up Brandon.

"Your art's really good, Lenny," compliments Kelly. "I'm kind of into art."

Really? He makes a mental note to remember that in the future. That's what so great about the early stages of dating, the little facts you find out that aren't in any guidebook, the little facts that show you listen to who you like because you like them.

"So why not take advantage of my skill?" says the artist. "I say as humbly as possible."

"We're on a tight schedule," says Brandon.

"This would take ten minutes max," assures the artist. "Come on. You need something to commemorate your first trip together."

Kelly smiles over at Brandon.

"Something tells me you could sell ice to a polar bear, Lenny," remarks Brandon.

"That I could," says Lenny.

"I...want...a picture of Brandon," asserts Kelly, slowly.

"What?" cries Brandon. "Wait a sec..."

"More than doable," says Lenny.

"Yeah, come on," encourages Kelly. "This doesn't require you taking off clothes like with the calendar, or being in an awkward pose, or..."

"I'm sure the lady can go on, Brandon," interjects Lenny.

"I can," agrees Kelly.

"You really want a picture of this mug?" says Brandon, turning to Kelly.

"Mhmmm," replies Kelly.

Whew, this is the last thing he thought he'd be doing today, but after she ordered breakfast for him, and came all this way, he can't say no. A numb butt and a goofy picture won't kill him.

Brandon rolls his shoulders and takes a seat on the stool. Kelly goes to Lenny's side, Lenny taking out a peach piece of chalk.

"So what do you like to do, Brandon?" asks Lenny.

"Oh, I know how this works," says Brandon. "You're going to exaggerate everything. There were caricatures in Minnesota, you know."

"Minnesota? Are you a twin?" asks Lenny.

Brandon twists his lips as Kelly laughs.

"I'll ask you then, miss," says Lenny. "Any hobbies?"

This would be interesting. What would Kelly manage to cull up from their four years of friendship?

"Sports definitely, preferably hockey," starts Kelly.

Lenny starts to draw on the sheet, shielded from Brandon's view. He sees Lenny go for red, blue, and white chalk too, yet stays quiet.

"And how do you see him?" says Lenny.

"Fine and upstanding, a gentleman, good posture," answers Kelly. "Warm smile, thoughtful blue eyes..."

She's staring at him as she lists every characteristic, her eyes never straying to the drawing. Were these things she's always noticed? Or were these things she'd only taken notice of today? Is she doing what he's doing? Is she trying to ingest any information about him and log every memory in her memory bank?

"Strong, open," finishes Kelly. "Really, really hot."

Brandon lowers his eyes to the pavement, smiling at more floating petals near his legs.

"Lemme add some finishing touches, and....there!" says Lenny, laying down his chalk after a few careful movements.

Standing, Brandon hesitantly peers at the drawing, Kelly by his side. The drawing is a more than decent likeness of him. His body is smaller, and his head bigger, but Lenny had pretty much gotten the rest right. There was his sandy-brown hair, his chest covered by a Minnesota hockey jersey, his hand holding a hockey stick, and his smile white and large as a tiny puck sails towards a miniscule goal.

"That's perfect," proclaims Kelly.

"Brandon?" encourages Lenny.

"What can I say?" sighs Brandon. "You nailed it."

"Another satisfied customer," says Lenny. "Fifteen dollars, please."

"Looks like I have to pay for you, Brandon," teases Kelly.

"I feel so cheap," says Brandon.

Kelly hands Lenny the money, and Lenny puts it into a thin box for protection.

"This city's beautiful at night," comments Lenny. "Make sure to stay out 'til dark, eh?"

He says it with a wink, with romance obviously on the brain. Brandon and Kelly say their good-byes, heading towards the Memorial, well in view after two blocks. They haven't said a word to each other after leaving Lenny, not until Kelly stops abruptly.

"Have you ever heard that expression 'what you see is what you get'?" asks Kelly.

"Yeah?" says Brandon.

"Well, and don't get me wrong, because Steve and Dylan are great guys, but...there was this piece of themselves that they hid from me, or they weren't emotionally open, and sometimes they had secrets, which I totally respect."

"But?"

"But I like to hide too. And sometimes when two people are hiding, there's no way it'll work. One of you has to open up eventually."

"Sounds right to me."

Kelly gently puts her hand in his, something he'd way rather be holding than a hockey stick.

"Something tells me that with you, what you see is really what you get," says Kelly. "And that's a good thing."

He more than understands where she's coming from and he's relieved. With Lucinda, there was too much secrecy, and with Clare, if anything happened, he'd be sneaking around with her behind the Chancellor's back. He'd like to be open and honest with her.

"I do have one secret, though," says Brandon. "Something you don't know about."

"What is that?" says Kelly, pulling away slightly.

"Nobody knows this, but...I can't dance...," starts Brandon.

Kelly laughs loudly, Brandon doing the same. He kisses her on the cheek with no reservations.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."


	3. I Think We're Alone Now

**III. I Think We're Alone Now**

_Children behave,  
That's what they say when we're together,  
And watch how you play,  
They don't understand,  
And so we're_

_Running just as fast as we can,  
Holdin' onto one another's hand,  
Tryin' to get away into the night,  
And then you put your arms around me,  
And we tumble to the ground,  
And then you say,_

_I think we're alone now,  
There doesn't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_Look at the way,  
We gotta hide what we're doin'.  
'Cause what would they say,  
If they ever knew and so we're,_

_Running just as fast as we can,  
Holdin' onto one another's hand,  
Tryin' to get away into the night,  
And then you put your arms around me,  
And we tumble to the ground,  
And then you say,_

_I think we're alone now,  
There does't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_I think we're alone now,  
There doesn't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_Running just as fast as we can,  
Holdin' onto one another's hand,  
Tryin' to get away into the night,  
And then you put your arms around me,  
And we tumble to the ground,  
And then you say,_

_I think we're alone now,  
There does't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_I think we're alone now,  
There doesn't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_I think we're alone now,(alone now)  
There does't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,(alone now)  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_I think we're alone now,(alone now)  
There does't seem to be anyone around.  
I think we're alone now,(alone now)  
The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

_I think we're alone now,(alone now)..._

**I Think We're Alone Now is the property of Tiffany.**

**AN: Sorry for the MAJOR delay on this chapter. I'll have the next one updated way more quickly, most likely before New Year's. I was just deciding which chapters to make longer or shorter. Reviews are appreciated. :D**

"Whoa, hold on!" cries Dylan, undoing his silk tie. "We don't know if that maid of honor dress is inflammable!"

Erica glances over her shoulder, but opens the book of matches despite Dylan's warning.

"I'm not a big fan of cream anyway," says Erica.

She dismissively bunches the cream-colored fabric of her dress near her waist and frowns. It was also clear, during the ceremony, that Erica still wasn't a fan of Kevin. Erica fidgeted madly during the wedding. She was also slow in walking up the aisle as the keyboardist played the wedding march. All of her smiles afterward were weak and directed towards her mother. Dylan couldn't help but wonder what went on when he wasn't in the same room with the three of them. The mood altered slightly, though, when they were at the reception. Kevin and Suzanne's party consisted of Dylan, Erica, Nat, Willie, and a couple of other Peach Pit employees. None of Kevin's friends or co-workers showed. What with the last minute acquisition of Dylan as the best man, he should've expected it, but it was pretty weird that Kevin's own family wasn't there. Maybe Kevin was a loner or estranged from his parents. Dylan, more than anyone, could understand both situations. But Kevin has a new family now, just like Dylan.

His toast went over well. Thanks to Brenda's encouragement, he was able to compose two drafts, and the second draft was actually good. It wrung a few tears out of Suzanne at the very least. He simply talked about how hard Suzanne had it, what with having to raise Erica by herself and bouncing from job to job. Then, he said that her reward was finally finding a decent man, brought to her and Erica by fate. Waxing sentimental wasn't too difficult when you really got into it. Brenda must've known that once he wrote it, instead of agonizing over it, it would fall into place. That sort of thing is natural to writers once they overcome the stress. In any case, he couldn't wait to share it with Brenda.

Brenda was coming over in about five minutes and he was still carrying luggage to the moving van. Kevin thanked him repeatedly, saying that his back and knees weren't what they used to be. Suzanne herself couldn't do the heavy lifting. So Dylan suggested that they go, get something to eat, while he took on this task. Erica managed with the smaller things (lamps, toiletries, her boombox), but Dylan didn't let her do too much. He's guessing this brought forth the need for Erica to amuse herself. But lighting candles before they go?

"Where are you going with those?" asks Dylan.

Erica smiles, shuffles past him. Dylan looks skyward before going after her.

"Brenda's going to be here any minute," says Erica.

"Yeah, I know she's going to be here any minute," says Dylan. "What are you doing?"

"Since it's obvious you're not going to do anything about it....," begins Erica.

Dylan reaches the backyard, freezes where the grill stands. A picnic table, covered by a black tablecloth and two sets of silverware, has been set up with a lantern Dylan used on the gang's camping trip right smack in the middle. Erica hums as she puts the two pink candles in the center. She then walks over to retrieve two cloth napkins. Dylan tries to process what's happening, wordlessly looking from Erica to the table, from the table to Erica.

"Dylan, you haven't had a date in forever," remarks Erica.

"Erica...," starts Dylan, doing his best to say it sensitively.

"You're going to be alone when we leave," says Erica. "I don't want you to be. It's not like you and Kelly were getting along the past month."

"You know I just broke up with Kelly," reminds Dylan.

It should've been harder for him to say that, but truthfully, after the continual spats and ugly looks they threw at one another when they were dating, it wasn't. Sure, a part of him would always care about Kelly. But the fire, the commitment that kept their relationship in a good place? It went missing awhile ago. That doesn't necessarily mean he's ready to have his little sister fix him up, though.

"Well, you never used to smile with her," notes Erica. "With Brenda, you smile, like even before you guys start talking."

Was something like that so obvious? To her? To Brenda?

"This is sweet, and I appreciate it," assures Dylan. "But I don't want to get your hopes up."

"Maybe you're afraid to get your hopes up," says Erica, turning to him.

Maybe I am, thinks Dylan, quickly silencing himself afterwards. No, he has valid reasons for being cautious. In fact, going over to her house for help was just to see if Brenda was still open to being friends with him. Sure, she invited him to the play and everything, but they weren't in constant contact. He really missed calling, saying "hey, Bren, what do you want to do today", and hanging at Casa de Walsh. Things used to be normal, peaceful there. He and Brenda could spend a whole day there and not get bored. They didn't need fancy things or exciting times. Dylan got enough of that growing up in a hotel, and being Jack McKay's son. A home-cooked meal and a meaningful conversation were harder to find yet easy to find at the Walshs. And he ruined it. Nowadays, he's lucky to be in the same room with Brenda.

"I'll be back in a sec," says Erica as she walks away.

Dylan wrings his hands and sighs. If Brenda walks in and sees this, who knows what she'll be thinking? Erica returns with a bottle of sparkling cider tucked under her arm and two plates in her hands. The plates hold brownies with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

"Whipped Chocolate Surprise," says Erica, setting them on the table.

"Looks like leftover wedding brownies with Cool Whip on top," says Dylan with a laugh.

"Don't tell Brenda that!" whispers Erica fiercely. "It'll kill the mood."

"Help me," mutters Dylan, shaking his head.

"Remember to hold her chair out for her," says Erica.

"I think I remember some of the dating rules," assures Dylan. "Let's finish moving your stuff. Or are you going to start drafting wedding invitations now?"

Erica chuckles, following Dylan to the living room. They manage to move the rest of her belongings in the next few minutes, spying Kevin's car in the distance. He honks and exits the car with Suzanne. Suzanne hands Erica a Peach Pit bag.

"Guess you guys are all ready to go," says Dylan.

"How can we thank you?" says Kevin, grinning. "Truly, Dylan, you've done so much for my wife...my stepdaughter."

"Take care of them," answers Dylan immediately.

Kevin nods, giving Dylan a firm pat. Suzanne offers Dylan a bright smile and hugs him.

"We're only a phone call away," says Suzanne.

"And you have to come down as soon as possible," adds Erica.

Dylan tugs on Erica's long, wavy ponytail, Erica manuevering into his arms for a hug. It is more than returned. He knew that she couldn't stay forever, but he never thought he'd be saying good-bye to her this way. She'd be in a totally new home and growing up miles away. So this is what it feels like to leave a sibling? He wonders if Brandon and Brenda will feel like this when they're in different places, feel like they're powerless to stop it? At least he'll see her when he goes to set up shop with Kevin.

"I love you, Dylan," says Erica against his chest.

"Right back at you, kid," says Dylan.

Erica loosens her grip, trails her mother to the car. She opens the door, waves a final time. Dylan waves and frowns as the engine starts, and the moving van follows the family down the street. They disappeared in a flash, as quick as a flash of lightning.

There isn't a flash of lightning, even if there is a source of light shining on Dylan's cheek. He looks to the left and his heart is moving like a Mexican jumping bean. Brenda is in the front seat of her car, smiling beyond the glass of the windshield. What should he do? He really has no intention of undoing Erica's hard work. Still, he doesn't want to have to explain it. Ugh, he can't even think fast enough to avoid the problem. Dylan manages to put on a smile to greet Brenda. Brenda hops out and starts across the lawn.

"Look at you," says Brenda. "I bet you looked better than the groom."

"If Suzanne was here, I'm sure she'd want a second opinion," says Dylan.

"Are they here?" asks Brenda.

"Just missed them," replies Dylan.

"Awww," pouts Brenda.

She reaches out to hug him, Dylan wrapping her in his arms. Her hair is soft against his cheek and her neck smells like roses. The scent is attractive and alluring, like her. She wears a black sweater over a cotton white dress, with low black pumps.

"How are you?" says Dylan.

"Good," says Brenda, separating from him.

"So I'm assuming the toast went well, based on your expression," guesses Brenda.

"You're not the only person who can play well to an audience," answers Dylan, holding open the door for her.

He shuts the door behind him, debating whether to keep her in the main house or venture into the backyard. If they did head to the backyard, he's pretty sure it's going to be awkward, for both of them. It would be fairly hard to hide it, too. You could see the table and traces of light from the foyer. Why did he decide to get a house with only one level, and why is he thinking of such a lame question like that at this second? Ugh.

"Well?" says Brenda.

"Well...well what?" replies Dylan.

"Do I get to hear the toast?" says Brenda. "I think I deserve to after driving all the way here."

"Right...right!" cries Dylan. "Uh, wait here."

Dylan goes to his bedroom to find his coat jacket, where he put his speech. He does his best to hurry and change his clothes, hoping that Brenda doesn't get curious and peek into the backyard. He locates the piece of paper and walks quickly to the living room, where Brenda's taken a seat on the couch.

"Ready?" asks Dylan.

"Ready," assures Brenda.

He tries to hand her the speech, Brenda shaking her head. Dylan sighs.

"You really want me to read it?" says Dylan.

"Out loud," says Brenda, nodding. "Nice and clear."

He was nervous reading it before, despite knowing a good deal of the people at the party. Right here, with only Brenda as a sympathetic ear, he's nowhere near as nervous. Dylan clears his throat and begins.

"The greatest writers and thinkers have always tried to capture one thing in their art and lives," says Dylan, giving her a quick glance. "Love."

Brenda grins sheepishly, lets her eyes drop to the floor.

"While they've linked it to music, poetry, and paintings, they've never claimed to know all the answers," says Dylan. "I'm glad they don't. Because what every good person and good artist needs is to find their own way to show that four-letter word. Maybe that way is slow. Maybe it's fast. Maybe it's fate. But Suzanne and Kevin have been lucky to find one another and make their belief in love a reality, for the rest of their lives. They are extra blessed to share this enlightenment with their beautiful daughter, my sister Erica. I can only wish them the best as they seek the right paths, with love as their compass. Cheers to the bride and groom, Suzanne and Kevin."

Her mouth hanging slightly open, Brenda applauds whole-heartedly. Dylan shrugs, doing his best not to look too proud.

"I feel like throwing some rice in celebration," comments Brenda.

Dylan chuckles. "The only rice we had was next to the salmon."

"Untraditional weddings are becoming the style," remarks Brenda. "But a perfect toast is absolutely necessary, and that was definitely it."

"Thanks, Bren," says Dylan, starting to join her on the couch.

"I better be going," sighs Brenda as she rises.

"Huh?" says Dylan.

"Dylan, I don't want to intrude," says Brenda, inching by him as she heads to the door.

"Intrude on what?" questions Dylan.

"The candles? The table?" replies Brenda. "It's obvious you're expecting someone."

Dylan smirks, unable to keep a straight face, and then is unable to keep it together. He laughs, bends to catch his breath as he touches his knees. Brenda squints her eyes and looks cluelessly at him.

"Wow, you saw it," says Dylan as soon as he can talk. "Okay."

"Dylan, you don't have to hide your dates from me," says Brenda, clumsily fiddling with her purse.

"Oh, I can assure you there's no date," says Dylan, putting a hand on her waist. "Believe me."

He gently leads her to the backyard, the last couple of hours of daylight serving as a pink and gold backdrop for the scene. Birds chirp from the neighbors' trees, the sound of a sprinkler echoing from behind a fence. Dylan slides the glass door to the patio shut. Brenda walks to the table, reads the label of the bottle and smiles.

"It's from a vineyard in Paris," observes Brenda.

"I'd like to say I got that from Paris, but...that's courtesy of the wedding,...courtesy of Erica, specifically," admits Dylan.

"Oh," says Brenda, closing her eyes and nodding.

"Yep, think we've found the matchmaker among the McKay clan," sighs Dylan.

"Iris seems like a romantic," brings up Brenda. "I saw your mom's influence all over that toast, by the way."

"Awww," groans Dylan. "Only you would notice that, Bren."

"Well, I'm a big believer in fate, too," says Brenda, opening her eyes to look at him.

Ehhh, they are out here. Is that fate? He might as well roll with it. Dylan goes to the chair on the right and pulls it out. Brenda grins.

"Thank you, Mr. McKay," says Brenda, sitting.

"You're welcome, Ms. Walsh," says Dylan.

He sits on the opposite end, watches Brenda set the cloth napkin in her lap. Dylan carefully watches her and follows suit.

"I really did think this was for someone else," confesses Brenda.

Her face falls, a frown present. It's pretty clear whose name neither one of them is saying. The truth is that if he did want to pursue something with Kelly, he would've made a move. Instead, he has no idea where she is or what she's doing, and for the first time it doesn't bother him.

"There's only so much you can do before a fire goes out, Bren," says Dylan, staring at her without wavering.

"That's true, but I don't want to be the kindling you find in the woods, just because that old fire's gone out," says Brenda faintly.

"Then, I guess we have to take the time to build a new one," says Dylan.

Brenda's mouth becomes less tense, growing into a smile that he returns. Dylan sits up straight.

"Are we through with the analogies, because school's almost out and finals are almost over," asks Dylan.

Brenda laughs. "Oh yeah. I say, pop the cork."

"The cork will be popped," says Dylan.

Dylan shakes the bottle, pops the cork, bubbles and cider spilling out on the sides for a few seconds. Brenda beams as he fills her glass and then his. For all the anxiety he's had about this makeshift celebration, he has to give it up to Erica. It is totally working out.

"I did promise Donna I'd stop by Mardi Gras tonight," says Brenda apologetically.

She shouldn't feel apologetic about that. Brenda only said she'd stop by and she was going to help out one of her friends, like she helped him. He's disappointed though. He was starting to relax, and so was she, and he is certainly enjoying himself.

"Good thing we have brownies for the appetizer, main course, _and_ dessert," jokes Dylan.

"Who decorated it?" says Brenda, picking up her brownie.

"Chef Erica or a Cool-Whip lovin' Mrs. Butterworth," answers Dylan.

"Mmm, nice," says Brenda. "Well, bon appetit."

"Bon appetit," says Dylan, raising his glass.

Brenda clinks her glass against his, takes a sip.

"So what are you doing this summer, Bren?" asks Dylan.

Swallowing hard, Brenda coughs and waves a hand in front of her face. She glances at Dylan in alarm. He stands and attempts to raise her arms.

"Do you need the Heimlich?" exclaims Dylan.

"No...no," breathes Brenda, waving her arms. "I...I, um, just drank too fast. Sorry."

"Oh," says Dylan.

Brenda massages her forehead for a minute, offers him a weak smile. What was that about? Whatever it was, Brenda isn't telling him. She calmly eats her brownie. It's like nothing happened.

"I was...um, I was thinking of travelling after getting the company in order," continues Dylan.

She nods, but keeps her eyes on the rest of her brownie. No eye contact? Dylan releases a low sigh. This was his subtle way of trying to get some information, and it's perhaps too subtle.

"Perhaps...you know, Paris first," says Dylan, raising his eyebrows at her.

If that didn't work, he has no clue what will. He's been dwelling on the idea of them going abroad ever since he mentioned it. There was still a lot of planning to do, and he's going on a leap of faith, but the idea appealed to him and he wanted to test the waters to see if Brenda was willing. She's willing to spend time with him here. He didn't know if she was willing to do it there.

"Oooh, speaking of the French," says Brenda, glancing at her watch. "I really gotta go to Mardi Gras. But...but this was amazing, Dylan."

Hurriedly standing up, Brenda grabs her purse and walks across the yard. Dylan speedily follows. What did he say that got her so unnerved? He was always careful with his words around her. That's something he thought that remained with them post break-up. He can let her go or....

"I...I was thinking of going to Mardi Gras too, actually," says Dylan.

"Oh, you were?" says Brenda innocently.

"To unwind...after the wedding," stammers Dylan. "So I can lock up and we can...."

"Sure!" interjects Brenda. "I mean, if you have no other plans."

His plans consisted of watching a film noir marathon. Scratch that.

"Well, I did, but...but it can wait," says Dylan. "Let me lock up and...."

"Great," says Brenda, avoiding his gaze. "I'll...start the car."

II.

Two matching green vests flutter behind small backs, two girls racing across the pavement and towards the marble steps. An agonizing sigh is released to the right of Brandon and Kelly, leisuring strolling to the same destination.

"Tiffany! Victoria!" yells their chaperone, a lean woman with glasses and long red hair.

Kelly pauses to take in the group of Girl Scouts on their way to the Lincoln Memorial. They're of various heights and ethnicities, but every single one of them wears a green skirt, a green vest, merit badges, a white blouse, and casual shoes. They were a female army of do-gooders, multiple Donnas in uniforms. Some of them look excited and some of them look amused...with Brandon. Two girls giggle when their eyes meet Kelly's.

"Think you have a troop of fans," whispers Kelly, nudging Brandon.

Brandon looks in the direction of Kelly's gaze. The girls giggle louder and run ahead of them.

"Too bad they don't have cookies," says Brandon with a shy smile.

"Oh, so you like those?" asks Kelly.

"I was always a Samoas fan," replies Brandon.

"Hmmm, Thin Mints," says Kelly, awkwardly raising her hand.

"Not for me," says Brandon. "They tasted like toothpaste and chocolate."

"Like you've never swallowed toothpaste?" teases Kelly.

"I....can't say I haven't, but...," says Brandon, his voice trailing off.

Kelly loops an arm through his, laughing with him as they walk. Being so close to him and taking the city in reinforces that this journey was worth the trip. The interesting buildings, the friendly people, and the wonderful weather are the perfect additions. Normally, when you heard of D.C., you didn't think of romance. You'd think of politics and patriotism and perhaps the Fourth of July. That's how it was with her, anyway. Truly, the only romantic thing she could think of on the plane was the fireworks, and the possible fireworks with Brandon.

Who knows who would light those? They haven't even kissed yet. She took the initiative to come out here, so she'd really welcome it if he took the initiative to kiss her. However, Brandon is a gentleman and most likely wouldn't force anything. She definitely didn't want to force anything on him either.

The two of them reach the marble stairs, carefully ascending the smooth steps. Tiffany, Victoria, and the other girls have spread themselves out on the steps, excitedly opening their bag lunches. This must be a routine field trip for a lot of kids. That never crossed her mind. Once they're in the shadows, and alone, they come face to face with Abraham Lincoln, tall, wide, and gleaming in the darkness. He's made of solid stone, shining, and taller than most trees.

"Wow," breathes Kelly.

"He certainly does make an impression," remarks Brandon, letting out a low whistle.

"One of our best presidents," says Kelly.

"Or the dude on the coin, as Steve calls him," adds Brandon.

"There's a lot of dudes on coins," points out Kelly.

"Fine, the dude on the brown coin, and that's a complete quote, word for word," says Brandon.

"What's that quote say?" asks Kelly, pointing to the words above Lincoln's head.

"In the temple, as in the hearts of the people," reads Brandon. "For whom he saved the union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever."

"Mmmm, to be enshrined forever," sighs Kelly happily. "Can you imagine being honored like that?"

"You can have your picture for a memory at least," suggests Brandon.

Kelly nods, hurriedly unzipping her purse to remove her small camera. She has yet to use it so the battery should be good, and the film should be full. The only problem is that the area doesn't have the best light. If she had planned for this trip ahead of time, she could've asked to borrow her mom's high-quality camera.

"I hope the flash is cooperative," moans Kelly.

"Working at the Blaze and the Condor taught me some things," says Brandon. "I'll make ya look good."

"If not, I'm telling Andrea you're slacking off," threatens Kelly playfully.

Brandon situates himself between two columns, and Kelly moves to find a patch of light.

"How's this?" calls over Kelly.

"Two steps forward," says Brandon, angling the camera. "I'm going to get a full body shot, okay?"

Kelly moves to the proper spot and smiles.

"Say Gettysburg!" says Brandon.

"Gettysburg!" exclaims Kelly, thrusting one arm up.

Brandon presses the button and a flash bounds around Kelly. Kelly takes the camera from him and advances the roll.

"Andrea should be pleased," says Brandon, giving himself a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

"Andrea's going to be pleased I came out here," says Kelly, then catching herself. "Oh."

"She knows?" says Brandon, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah, um, we were talking about you, and...," starts Kelly.

The rest of what she was going to say catches in her throat. Sure, Andrea knows, and Donna knows. Everybody else? They had no idea. Donna did tell her to follow her heart, but that was Donna. How are people going to react when they walk hand in hand at the Peach Pit or when they kiss on the C.U. campus if they did date? The campus is large, though not that large.

"Brandon, not a lot of people know," says Kelly softly. "That's...that's the thing."

"Not a lot of people knew we weren't really boyfriend and girlfriend at the retreat," recalls Brandon.

"Different circumstances," sighs Kelly. "Dylan...and I..."

"Knew his name would come up eventually," says Brandon, his lips getting tight.

Kelly hugs herself, looks away, at Lincoln stoically positioned in his permanent seat. Chances are that he's never had this type of problem. She knows he helped the slaves, gave people their first taste of freedom. If only her thoughts made her feel more free, rather than make her feel enslaved by her guilt. She shouldn't debate the two. Her problem seems so petty in comparison.

"Do you think people come here and talk to him?" says Kelly. "Or is that stupid?"

"No, that's not stupid," says Brandon. "Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his I Have A Dream speech here. He was probably inspired by Honest Abe."

"Honest Abe," mumbles Kelly.

"Yeah, when he was a lawyer, he had a reputation for being honest and good," shares Brandon.

"I feel like I'm forever chasing after a good reputation," says Kelly.

Her eyes grow teary, and she hates it. She was judged, and coming home with Brandon would lead to further judgment. She's not sure she's prepared for that.

"Brandon, if we started something...you'd get so much flack for it," says Kelly, sniffling.

"From who?" says Brandon. "Dylan?"

"Probably."

Brandon comes closer to her, lowering her arms, and makes her face him. Kelly blinks as a tear falls.

"If we're honest with each other, and everyone else, then I see no reason to hide," reassures Brandon.

"What kind of girl goes out with two best friends?" says Kelly, shrugging.

"What kind of situation is this?" returns Brandon. "A hard one. But _you_ have to know, Kelly, that our friendship and all of our friendships are strong enough to deal with something like this."

"Maybe," sighs Kelly.

"And you don't have to chase that good reputation with me," says Brandon, putting a hand against her cheek. "As far as I'm concerned, you've had that for a long while now."

Those were perfect words to say, because she's never heard them, and they were perfect, because they were coming from him.

"Brandon," chokes out Kelly.

She lets her chin sit on his chest, her nose near his neck. His frame is so firm. The pattern of his shirt is so clear despite the shadows. She brushes her hand against it, allowing her head to rise.

"This is the best date I've been on," whispers Kelly.

"I haven't even spent any money yet," says Brandon.

"Shut up," scolds Kelly, playfully.

Brandon cups her chin and holds it steady as he moves in to kiss her. Unfortunately, the silence of the shadows is interrupted by a gaggle of giggles behind Brandon. Kelly rolls her eyes. They stare past the columns to view fourteen Girl Scouts looking at them.

"Girls, staring isn't polite!" chastises their chaperone, scuttling the girls away. "I apologize, mister and miss."

"Oh...that's alright," says Brandon, running a hand through his hair.

"Would either of you happen to know the direction to the White House?" asks the chaperone.

"We're on our way there," replies Kelly.

"Great!" cries the chaperone. "We could walk together."

"Can't wait," says Brandon, swinging his arms back and forth.

"I hear Bill kissed Hilary in the Rose Garden yesterday," says the chaperone gleefully. "How lovely."

"Hmmm, lucky her," says Kelly, locking eyes with Brandon.


	4. Still Got This Thing

**IV. Still Got This Thing**

_Why is it so hard to say what's on my mind_  
_Why am I so proud?_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_I know you understand, but you still need a sign_  
_Real love should shout out loud_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_Hey baby can I carry your flame?_  
_I wanna take you somewhere untame_  
_Don't you know you're drivin' me insane?_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_When you walk that way, I can feel the heat_  
_Just below the surface_  
_I'd do anything for you .. uh huh… yeah_  
_When you're out all alone, I hear things from the street_  
_I get kinda nervous_  
_Still got this thing for you. Oh yea_  
_Hey baby can I carry your flame?_  
_I wanna take you somewhere untame_  
_Don't you know you're drivin' me insane?_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_Let me see you smile, come on look me in the eye_  
_Too many times I let the chances go by_  
_Pull down the shade, turn out the light_  
_Help me make up for all those nights tonight_  
_Real love, know it's true_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_Real love, know it's true_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_Hey baby can I carry your flame?_  
_I wanna take you somewhere untame_  
_Don't you know you're drivin' me insane?_  
_We can't connect.. oh, that would be a shame_  
_Hey baby can I carry your flame?_  
_I wanna take you somewhere untamed_  
_Don't you know you're drivin' me insane?_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_Still got this thing for you_  
_Still got this thing for you…_

**Still Got This Thing is the property of Alannah Myles.**

**For the Cool In You and Nobody Knows It But Me is the property of Babyface.**

Shrieks of joey pierce through the noise of Mardi Gras, multiple kids leaping on the multi-colored moon bounce. There's not a pair of twins among them, but she did that once at a fair in Minnesota. Yep, you could spot the brown-haired Walsh twins in their terrycloth T-shirts, denim shorts, and sneakers right in the middle of the childhood chaos. But their parents were with them, and that was a long time ago. Today, she simply relishes watching other kids express their happiness outwardly while she privately enjoys her own.

Dylan's more private than she is, flashing her a smile as they head past a cotton candy stand. That's partly why she jumped to conclusions when she saw the table in the backyard. The other part is that she almost expected to get hurt. She certainly didn't see Kelly coming and she wanted to guard herself if another girl came into the picture. Yet everytime they're alone, she thinks she's the only girl. Everytime he calls her Bren, it feels like the summer before their senior year didn't exist. Past drama disappears. Forgiveness comes to the forefront and she's falling again. It's been over a year, she tells herself.

Then, reality hits like a ton of bricks. Dylan and Kelly broke up not too long ago. She didn't want to be a rebound. She's on her way to London for an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime. But is a second chance with Dylan an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime too?

"I've never heard so many sounds in my life," comments Dylan. "Including on the beach."

"Zips, zongs, pings, bonks," lists Brenda. "I'd have to agree."

"Hey, McKay!" yells a voice from a small crowd near the games area.

"And Steve Sanders, the most pleasant sound of all," says Dylan, steering Brenda towards their mutual friend.

Brenda chuckles.

Steve, decked fully in a green and grey Greco-Roman costume, has a matching helmet and tanned legs. Brenda saw him in the outfit earlier. She'd also seen him with the woman he has with him, Celeste. She's her usual perky self though she holds a stuffed purple and pink-striped bear at arm's length. It is sort of grotesque.

"I carried on the great Roman gladiator tradition of showing my immeasurable strength," boasts Steve.

"In other words, he won me this," says Celeste, nodding to the bear.

"Nice job, Steve," says Brenda.

"Not trying to make you look bad, Dylan," reassures Steve. "It's not every man that can hit a bell so hard that it rises to the top of the sky."

"Steve, in the long run, men hit only what they aim at," says Dylan sheepishly. "Therefore, they had better aim at something high."

Steve scrunches up his nose. "Okay, Yoda?"

"That's Thoreau," corrects Brenda. "Basically it means, reach for the stars."

Dylan beams at Brenda, while Steve scratches his head momentarily. He continues to mull it over as Celeste leads him to a basketball hoop game. Celeste removes his helmet and kisses him on the cheek.

"But...I won the bear," stammers Steve as they wander off.

"I love the bear," says Celeste.

Without Steve seeing it, she turns around and mouths "no" to Dylan and Brenda. They grin, then go in the opposite direction.

"Know what you're taking next semester?" asks Brenda.

"There's a few English classes I'm considering," replies Dylan. "Oh, and maybe a screenwriting course."

"Wow, screenwriting!" says Brenda. "That's something I could totally picture you doing."

"I watch a lot of old films," says Dylan nonchalantly.

"I remember," says Brenda.

"Maybe I'll be the screenwriter who lands you an Academy Award," poses Dylan.

"With you behind the camera, and me in front of the camera, we'll be unstoppable," says Brenda.

She likes that idea. She likes it a lot. Plus, one of her all-time favorite Hollywood romances was between Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller, two creative people loving each other and doing what they love while loving each other. Dylan was a fantastic writer. Surely, they could follow suit. They'd encourage each other like they used to do and it would be even better.

Waves of music begin to reach their ears. They must be nearing the concert area where Babyface is set to perform. When Brenda ran into David earlier, he looked rattled. By a lucky turn of events, David went from organizer to performer; Babyface selected him to play back-up on the keyboard. Most aspiring musicians would kill for that. She promised Donna she'd come out for it and pinch hit for any slack carnival volunteers. It was tough to spot her in this crowd, though.

Brenda is about to rally Dylan into her search, until she hears a loud groan and a foot stamping repeatedly. She looks to see a game stand where a volunteer is in the center of dozens of glass fish bowls. White balls bounce across the corners of the bowls, skipping to the outside of the stands. Meanwhile, multiple small goldfish were swimming underneath in a panic. A single goldfish is in a plastic bag a blonde girl holds. She rocks the bag and starts to cry. A firm frown stays on Brenda's face.

"What?" says Dylan.

"I just think this game's a little cruel," says Brenda softly.

"Oh," says Dylan, looking on as well.

"I don't wanna small one!" cries the girl, crying and hiccuping at the same time. "I don't wanna small one!"

She drops the bag to the ground and kicks it, the fish squirming to a corner. Brenda gasps. What an unfeeling brat.

"Ellen Louise!" says a busty blonde woman, obviously her mother. "Come with me. I'm not going to tell you again."

Then, they both do something unfathomable. They leave the fish on the ground. Her mother didn't even care. The bag's dusty, and sure he's small, thinks Brenda. But it's still a living, breathing animal. Brenda scoops it from the ground and holds it up to the lights attached to the roof of the stand.

"That was horrible," sighs Brenda.

"That girl and her mom have been bothering us this whole weekend," says the volunteer, a pretty sophomore redhead Brenda sort of recognizes.

Dylan stands by Brenda's side. "How much for the fish?"

Brenda glances at him momentarily, catches herself smiling in the reflection of the water in the bag.

"You can play to win for another fish. Two dollars a throw," says the volunteer.

"Nah," says Dylan. "I can tell. She wants this one."

He removes five bucks from his pocket and gives it to the volunteer. He definitely didn't have to do that. Brenda revolves the bag until she's face to face with the fish, who rightfully still appears petrified. It seems to calm down after a few seconds, his yellow gills relaxing.

"Five bucks," says the volunteer. "Cool."

"Thanks," says Brenda.

"You had that same expression whenever Rocky was around," says Dylan. "No big, Bren."

She believes it's big, that he considered her feelings. That's what he always used to do before certain things came to pass. Well, she doesn't want to dwell on then. She'd rather dwell on now.

"Is this a boy or a girl?" asks Brenda.

"I can never tell," admits the volunteer. "Whatever you want."

Brenda and Dylan drift away, examining the fish hovering in the center of the water. There's probably a bowl at their house. Her dad used to keep fish as pets when they lived in Minnesota. He preferred the colorful ones. Brandon thought fish were boring, but she was always aching to feed them and observe them. Honestly, if you looked at them a certain way, they weren't boring at all.

"I'm going to name her Blanche," decides Brenda. "After _Streetcar. _She had to go through agony before she found a little peace."

"A hard-knocked life just makes you stronger," says Dylan, shrugging.

Hmmm, she wonders if she's talking more about himself than the fish. Brenda smiles softly at him. If she told him that she was going away for the summer, after he kept hinting that he'd like to spend it with her, that'd be another knock in Dylan's life. He didn't deserve to be disappointed anymore, no matter what he did to her in the past. He didn't deserve to have his hopes crushed. Although, her hopes for her career shouldn't be crushed either. What should she choose? Maybe if she presents her problem to him, they can talk about it.

"Dylan, when you were talking about summer plans, I really...," begins Brenda.

He looks at her expectantly, his brown eyes shining.

"Brenda!" interrupts a friendly voice. "You're here! Thank God!"

Clothed in a denim jacket, jeans, and a frilly top, Donna Martin muscles her way into the conversation. Bad timing. Ugh, really bad timing.

"Hey, Don," says Brenda.

"Hey," greets Dylan.

"Listen, thanks for coming and all, but I no longer require your services," says Donna. "Mardi Gras was the one event this year where every volunteer kept their commitment. Who would've thunk?"

"That's great," says Brenda.

It truly is, because she's way more interested in spending time with someone who only decided to come at the last minute.

"But you guys have to, have to, have to watch David perform!" insists Donna. "I got goosebumps in rehearsal. Come on. He's on in a couple minutes!"

Donna takes Dylan's arm and Brenda's free hand, manuevering through the crowd like a pro. A huge group of CU students stand around the stage, the seven-member band under the glow of the stage lights, with David Silver bent over the black and white keys of an expensive keyboard. Brenda's mouth parts a little. David has to be having the time of his life. Donna waves from where they're positioned but David doesn't wave back. He's tuning his instrument. Brenda spies Ariel hovering behind him with an amused smile. Unfortunately, so does Donna.

"Do you think she's pretty?" whispers Donna to Brenda.

"Not as pretty as you," assures Brenda in a whisper. "You and David belong together."

"Yeah," says Donna happily. "We do."

Donna casts a playful, yet subtle glance at Dylan who is staring at the stage.

"Is this a date?" whispers Donna.

"No," answers Brenda. "Well...I don't know. We're hanging out."

"Riiiiight," says Donna, smirking.

Brenda elbows her. They agreed to go to the same place. It isn't a technical date. But she doesn't know what she should call it.

Her thoughts are silenced by a round of cheers and screams as the main act takes the stage. Babyface arrives, strutting confidently to the middle. Brenda, Dylan, and Donna clap energetically as he comes up to the microphone. This is a huge night for David _and _CU in general. Brenda honestly can't believe he's right here in the flesh.

"Good evening, Condors!" greets Babyface.

Shrill screams follow his statement.

"Let's jam," says Babyface.

David silently counts to himself, kicking off the song with a smooth jazz melody. The audience recognizes the song and starts to rock to the beat. Brenda even catches Dylan nodding to the beat. Babyface sings:

_Here we go round and round and round_  
_And back and forth you know_  
_Everybody goes through it sometime_  
_And that's just the way it flows_  
_So we go up and down and up_  
_And in and out the door_  
_Even though you know you've been through it before_

Donna beams as David catches the nuances of the song and the funk of the rhythm. This time, David does catch her eye, smiling from ear to ear. It's nice to see. They are the sweetest couple she knows. She sincerely wishes that they won't ever have to go through what she and Dylan went through.

_For every argument that we've experienced_  
_It's nice to know that you've remained composed_  
_And I wanna thank you for the chill in you_  
_Especially for you being so cool_  
_This is for the cool in you_

Then again, she and Dylan managed to be friends. That wasn't the case for a lot of relationships that ran into the infidelity problem. Dylan was definitely there for some moments where other boys might've not been there for her. Like if she measured Stuart and Rick against Dylan? They wouldn't be able to compete. Her feelings for either one of those guys couldn't compete with her feelings for Dylan. Isn't that what's most important? Then, she's feeling Dylan's hand on the small of her back. She swallows a lump in her throat yet she lets it stay there.

_Looking on back at all the changes_  
_That I put you through_  
_Any other girl in your position_  
_Sho-nuff would've been through_  
_Thinkin' about how you made it easy_  
_Always there for me_  
_Never once did you turn your back and leave_

She doesn't want him to take his hand away. She doesn't want him to go away. They've avoided each other long enough and brought up what happened enough for her to have these feelings. As if reading her mind, Donna shares a private smile with her as the song launches into its final moments.

_For every tear you've cried, I've cried a thousand times_  
_Never once did I want you to hurt inside_  
_I wanna thank you for the chill in you_  
_Especially for you being so cool_  
_This is for the cool in you_

Babyface ad-libs and raises his fist to signal for the band to stop. Boisterous applause carries across the space of spectators.

"We're going to slow it down now," says Babyface, propping himself up on a stool. "This is for the lovers. May your roads always be smooth."

"Woo!" shout a few fans.

David plays a couple restrained refrains, the guitarist doing most of the work. Babyface taps the microphone stand.

"I have a fantastic idea," says Donna, turning to Brenda and Dylan. "Why don't...you two dance?"

What is this? When did L.A. become matchmaker central, especially two people who are close to them? Red-faced, Brenda stares at the fish to hide her embarrassment.

"Oh, I can take lil' Flipper there," assures Donna.

"Blanche," corrects Brenda. "That's okay."

She notes Dylan's reaction. He doesn't look too disinterested. In fact, he's looking right at her. Quite a few couples have paired off and they're already swaying to the music.

"I can get a bowl from Courtney," says Donna. "Go ahead. If you guys don't dance, I'll feel like I brought you here for nothing, Bren."

"Ummm, only if Dylan...," says Brenda.

"Why not?" interjects Dylan.

"Why not, indeed," says Donna, nodding assertively.

Donna extends her hand for the fish and Brenda tenderly places it inside. The fish remains calm. Donna gestures to the dance floor. Brenda tosses Dylan a reluctant glance but allows him to lead her to the dance floor in front of the stage.

"If I step on your toes...," starts Dylan.

"You never have before," says Brenda.

Somehow, that breaks the tension. Maybe the memories of earlier dances puts them at ease. He never has stepped on her feet. They haven't danced in the longest time, dances where she felt like they were the only two in the room. Sometimes, she still feels like that and they aren't dancing. Dylan gives her a faint smile. He must remember too. Babyface sings as Brenda tentatively puts her hands on his shoulders, Dylan causing them to envelop even more as he brings her closer.

_I pretend that I'm glad you went away_  
_These four walls closing more every day_  
_And I'm dying inside_  
_And nobody knows it but me_  
_Like a clown I put on a show_  
_The pain is real even if nobody knows_  
_And I'm crying inside_  
_And nobody knows it but me_

Brenda searches his eyes. They're that familiar brown, with a hint of mystery and melancholy. They're those eyes that have witnessed so much and known so much, far too much for someone their age. It's the feature she fell for first, and despite having to break down all those barriers, their openness is what she clung to when their conversations got easier.

"A year ago, we were at prom," recalls Dylan.

"Mmmm, yeah," says Brenda. "I blocked most of that out....because of my date. Tony Miller?"

"Oh yeah. I should've rescued you from that guy," kids Dylan as they sway.

"You've done that...when it mattered," says Brenda.

Dylan grins and gently presses his fingers against her waist. Brenda smiles down at his fingers.

"You said we'd go our separate ways," says Dylan.

"I was wrong," says Brenda. "It happens...sometimes."

"Sometimes," chuckles Dylan. "Well, I'm glad you were wrong."

She bites her lip. What she should say is that she's glad too. It's hard, though, especially when she remembers something else, something she shouldn't forget-- that she's off to London very soon. Dylan can't go her way. He's creating a new business and he has school. They'd be separated, for three long months at least.

_Why didn't I say the things I needed to say_  
_How could I let my angel get away_  
_Now my world is just a-tumblin' down_  
_I can say it so clearly but you're nowhere around_

_"_Bren?" says Dylan.

"Yes, Dylan?" says Brenda.

"Did you mean what you said that night?" asks Dylan. "That you hoped last year was the toughest I ever knew?"

"You know I did," replies Brenda. "And still do."

"It wasn't just my dad," says Dylan, then taking a deep breath. "It was tough...losing you too."

Brenda's shoulders sink as she takes this in. She lets her eyes wander to his and there's no mystery there. There's solely the truth.

_The nights are so lonely the days are so sad and_  
_I just keep thinking about the love that we had_  
_And I'm missing you _  
_And nobody knows it but me_

"I'm sorry," whispers Dylan.

Her mouth quivers. "Thank you."

She embraces him fully, his heart mirroring the beat of her own. Staring past his body, she blinks at the sky and forces the tears to stall, because she's not sure how much more vulnerable she can be.

_I carry a smile when I'm broken in two_  
_And I'm nobody without someone like you_  
_I'm trembling inside _  
_And nobody knows it but me (yeah)_

Suddenly, another hand is touching her back. It must be Donna with the bowl.

"Small world," says Jim Walsh.

Brenda hurriedly wipes the forming tears, replacing them with a weary smile for her parents. Jim and Cindy are standing there, Cindy sneaking popcorn out of Jim's box.

"Hey," says Brenda, pulling away from Dylan. "Didn't think I'd see you here."

"Obviously," says Jim, staring at Dylan.

This is becoming a thousand times more awkward, groans Brenda inwardly. She didn't want Dylan to have to deal with this, not tonight.

"Jim," greets Dylan. "Cindy."

Her father bristles at the use of his first name. Her mother is the opposite and doesn't seem to care.

"How are you, Dylan?" asks Cindy.

"Good, thank you," says Dylan. "Yourself?"

"Wonderful," replies Cindy. "I'm glad classes are over."

"We came out to support CU, what with your mom taking her last exam and all," explains Jim.

"Babyface," says Cindy. "Even I like this guy."

"Even _I_ like this guy," agrees Dylan.

The three of them laugh, except her father. Jim's face fails to move an inch.

"Shouldn't you be packing?" asks Jim.

Packing. Brenda's gaze skirts to Dylan, who raises his eyebrows.

"Paul Aiken, one of my colleagues, knows where you can get a student travel card," continues Jim. "You can get great discounts when you're in London this summer."

Brenda watches Dylan's entire face collapse, like a deflated balloon trampled by parade marchers. Her heart feels similarly. This isn't how she thought he would find out that she was leaving. She was going to tell him on her terms, sensitively. She was going to tell him that she cared about him. No luck there. Thanks to her dad. He consistently ruins everything, and based on the not so guilty grin across his lips, he was fine with doing it. Dylan delivers a sad glance in her direction.

_How blue can I get?_  
_You could ask my heart_  
_But like a jigsaw puzzle it's been torn all apart_  
_Billion words couldn't say just how I feel_  
_A million years from now you know I'll be loving you still_

"Dylan," says Brenda, creasing her brow in concern.

"I have a business call to make in the morning," sighs Dylan. "Uh....."

"We can follow Brenda home," says Jim.

Cindy gives her husband a light punch on the stomach, causing him to wince.

"Oh, okay," says Dylan. "I'll catch a cab. Is that okay, Brenda?"

No Bren. Just Brenda. It's clear that he's hurt. Why did her father open his big mouth? Why didn't she open her mouth when she had the chance?

"I guess," says Brenda.

"Enjoy your evening, guys," says Dylan.

"You too," says Jim.

Brenda closes her eyes, reopens them to watch Dylan walk through the practically empty fairground, the majority of the energetic people behind him as Babyface performs his ballad. The kids and their parents have gone home, like she soon will. You can hear the wind scattering the carnival debris everywhere. You can hear the guitar strum and the bass thump from the stage. Brenda can hear her heart breaking between both places.

II.

The strong scent of hyacinth and soil hovers above the rectangular curves of the Rose Garden. While rich, it hangs too long in his nose and Brandon briefly covers it. Kelly's not as affected and walks dreamily past the flower beds. Her blonde hair blows back and forth in the breeze. She doesn't care, which makes her more beautiful to him. Does she care about other things? Is she affected by other things?

That's how it came off when they were at the Memorial, when she mentioned Dylan. The name had to come up eventually. He wishes he could say that yes, he dated her first technically, at the Spring Formal, but that's not a convincing argument when you pit it against Kelly's past relationship with Dylan. They'd been through quite a few hurdles. Brandon can't deny that. But Kelly ran to him. She got on a plane to come out to Washington and determine what they could potentially be, and he was more than eager to run right alongside her. Who knows? Maybe they'd have hurdles too and build a better team than they anticipated.

"I saw a proposal in this Rose Garden on TV once," shares Kelly.

Brandon strolls next to her, not so focused on the overpowering smells.

"Before, I thought it was weird, but this place really is gorgeous," says Kelly. "Could you see yourself proposing to a person here?"

"Yeah, I think so," replies Brandon. "As long as there weren't any bees around."

"Ewww, I hate bees," confesses Kelly. "They make your skin swell up and....ugh."

"This _is_ the time they come out," reminds Brandon jokingly.

"So?" says Kelly confidently, though she takes his arm anyway.

He pats her hand reassuringly. While the Girl Scouts tagged along to the actual location, most of them are skipping around the garden and he guesses they were no longer intrigued by the two of them. That makes sense. Put a dozen girls in a pretty garden where they could play, and a pretty couple is yesterday's news. That didn't stop their leader from looking frazzled though. She sits on a stone bench, fanning herself.

"I still have great memories of my mom's wedding at your house," says Kelly.

"That was some wedding," agrees Brandon.

"Us Taylor women love roses," says Kelly.

"I'll keep that in mind," says Brandon. "I'd pluck one now, but here's betting it costs a hundred dollars a pluck."

"Maybe the Secret Service men will come out and harrass you," says Kelly, shrugging.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" says Brandon.

Kelly laughs. "Yeah...I would."

"Then we'd have a story to tell," muses Brandon.

"Brandon," says Kelly, squeezing his wrist. "We'll have a lot of stories to tell after this trip."

Of course, she's right. Four years ago, moving to L.A., he wouldn't have believed that he'd go to Washington or get into politics or take prom queen Kelly Taylor to the Spring Formal. He was Mr. Minnesota, an optimistic journalist, and the less adventurous twin. He changed, and so has Kelly. Now, they're changing together. He's anxious to see what form it takes.

"Uh-oh," says Brandon, stalling. "We passed a group of red and white roses."

"And?" says Kelly.

"You're wearing white and red," replies Brandon. "We can't just pass this photo op by. It's like a bull going by a china store."

"You're comparing me to a bull?" asks Kelly, giggling.

"A thin one in a flowery dress," kids Brandon. "Let's go. Pick a pose."

Kelly shakes her head, but positions herself in front of a hedge, three rows of white roses at the top, and three rows of red roses on the bottom.

"Too bad they're missing blue," calls over Kelly. "We could get a more patriotic pose."

"There's no blues around here," says Brandon. "Except your eyes."

"You are so corny," says Kelly.

"I wasn't trying to...just let me take the picture," says Brandon, pulling the camera out.

Chuckling, Kelly points to the flowers and smiles for the camera. Brandon squats to get a full-length shot, the stems of the roses dancing in the wind. It looks amazing. She looks amazing. He adjusts the lens and hits the button.

"Nice," says Brandon, standing.

"Aww, butterflies," says Kelly, noticing a few small, yellow butterflies fly among the flowers.

Brandon puts the camera strap over his neck and joins her. They are sweet as they go from petal to petal. Then, there's buzzing. Butterflies don't buzz. Butterflies definitely don't buzz. Three bees zip past the butterflies, loudly and leisurely.

"Eeep!" cries Kelly. "Brandon!"

He does his best to shoo them away without antagonizing them, but they're putting up a pretty good fight. Kelly attempts to hit one bee with her travel brochure.

"Kelly, don't make them mad," warns Brandon.

"They shouldn't have flown this way if they didn't want me to get mad!" says Kelly. "I'm not playing with you...you stupid...stingers!"

While he feels for her, it's somewhat comical. Watching her try to swat bees with her innocent, panicked expression is undeniably cute. He should probably end her misery, however. Brandon sighs and leaps towards her, bringing her to the ground. The bees hover over them for a minute and fly away.

"Uhh," groans Kelly. "Are they gone?"

"Yep," says Brandon.

"They were terrorizing me," says Kelly with a fake pout.

"Who you? Kelly the Killer?" says Brandon.

"Shut up," laughs Kelly. "But...this is nice."

Brandon looks down into her eyes, which were more blue than he'd realized, and moves some hair from her face. It was all over the place after the bee assault. He imagines this is how she wakes up. Actually, he's seen her wake up a couple times. She was only a friend then. Kelly lets him trace the length of her forehead.

"What are you thinking, behind that smirk?" questions Kelly.

"How I'm glad that you're afraid of bees," answers Brandon.

"I was thinking that you were thinking that you wanted to kiss me," whispers Kelly.

"You want to kiss me?" says Brandon.

"Don't turn it around!" sighs Kelly. "Do you?"

"Yes," whispers Brandon. "I want to kiss you."

He lets his lips part against her open mouth, brush with more force as they meet. They mesh in the dim shadows of the roses. It's soft and sure and sweeter than the last, which was months ago. He touches the curve of her chin. Kelly reaches to run a hand through his hair. Her thumb is near his ear. The sun warms his cheek. He pulls away slightly.

"The last kiss we had was outside," says Kelly.

"The retreat," says Brandon. "I never stopped thinking about it."

"That's a good sign," says Kelly, resting a hand on his cheek. "And...same with me."

Brandon takes her hand, kisses it just below the wrist.

"This was better," whispers Brandon.

"That's a good sign, too," says Kelly.

This could be the moment, the moment where they pass from pretend and petrified to real and ready. The lack of fake labels, boyfriend and girlfriend, died with the retreat. The anxiety of their former significant others doesn't have to make any other feelings die. Brandon tells himself that this _is_ the moment.

"I'm definitely falling for you," insists Brandon.

"You just did," points out Kelly.

"I'll keep doing it," vows Brandon.


	5. Love Is A Contact Sport

**V. Love Is A Contact Sport**

_You've been avoiding me_  
_Like a cat tryin' to dodge a dog_  
_I never see ya shine_  
_You're as cold as the London fog_  
_You claim you want my love_  
_Well I wouldn't know by_  
_the way you behave_  
_If you want to feel the_  
_thrill of my touch_  
_You better come outta yo cave_

_It's so perplexing_  
_Why you fight it, won't you try it_  
_Love's electric_  
_Turn me on and see_

_Love is a contact sport_  
_You gotta move in tight_  
_If you wanna do it right, here I am_  
_Love is a contact sport_  
_You gotta act untamed_

_If you wanna play the game so_  
_Grab my hand and ... slam!_

_I hate to sound aggressive_  
_But I'm tired of_  
_waitin' for your move_  
_Cut the formalities_  
_'Cause you've got a few_  
_things to prove_  
_If you really want my love_  
_I need to feel it down_  
_deep from within_  
_Don't make me wait too long_  
_I'm ready now, come_  
_and stroke my skin_

_Well all this talkin'_  
_Worthless chatter, just don't matter_  
_Time for stalkin'_  
_Come get next to me_

_It's so perplexing_  
_Why you fight it, won't you try it_  
_Love's electric_  
_Come get next to me_

**Love Is A Contact Sport is the property of Whitney Houston.**

"Thanks for the sister-related advice."

She makes the remark as two bellhops hold the hotel doors, their white gloves winding around the gold handles. Kelly reluctantly goes through them. Being in the city with Brandon totally beats the tired trek they had from the souvenir store to here. But did anything beat their kiss in the Rose Garden? Nope, she quickly thinks. He was genuinely interested in going farther, calming the one worry she had about coming on the trip.

It's so nice not to wait. In contrast to Dylan, who was a mysterious journal she could only unlock at times, Brandon is an open book that she was enjoying returning to this whole year. He spoke what he felt and meant what he said. Plus she has this very confident feeling that she won't be waiting up nights concerned about where he is and what he is doing. Look at who Brandon has as an example, Jim Walsh. She wasn't so lucky, what with her father's continued absence at home and her mom's partying past. But her mom had come around and the proof is in her hands. Kelly had just bought her baby sister her first souvenir- a stuffed Socks, the toy version of the Clintons' first cat.

"Erin would've swallowed that Lincoln Memorial keychain," assures Brandon. "Trust me. They may look cute and plastic, and say ages one and up, but my cousin Melanie's baby daughter choked on Mr. Potato Head's eye in two seconds flat."

Kelly laughs. "Any baby Brenda stories?"

"Brenda was too busy dancing around the house to eat her toys," recalls Brandon. "And I was too busy running around in my underwear."

"You'll have to reenact that for me later," says Kelly.

She blushes a bit. Whoa, she can't believe that came out, even though she said it jokingly. Brandon offers her an amused smile.

"That can be arranged," says Brandon teasingly. "Oh, sir?"

Brandon approaches the front desk of the lobby, Kelly hitting his butt with her bag. To her relief, in a small way, Brandon isn't asking for another key; he's asking the assistant manager about area restaurants. But honestly...where is she going to stay tonight? She's pretty sure Brandon's room has one bed. That doesn't mean he wants her in there with him. Plus, if he does, is it going too fast? Their one kiss brought up so many emotions so imagine what a night at a hotel would do. They haven't told their friends about being a "them" yet and what if sex ruins everything? It wouldn't be the first time that it soured one of her relationships. Kelly throws Brandon a nervous smile when he glances at her briefly to point her out to the assistant manager. He waves. Hopefully, they're not waving good-bye to something good when they take the next step.

II.

The assistant manager coughs into a piece of tissue paper and sniffles in Brandon's direction. Brandon does his best not to recoil.

"Allergies," explains the assistant manager. "The spring."

He's a small man, with a droll voice and a stuffy nose, which isn't particularly pleasant to listen to at the same time.

"My condolescenes," says Brandon.

"Thanks," says the assistant manager. "Like I was saying, there's the Caucus Room. They serve tuna tartar and filet mignon. There's the Monocle. White bean soup and the federal salad. Ha, federal salad."

Interestingly, he doesn't laugh after saying that. Ugh, he won't stop talking.

"Do you like Dupont Circle or the Penn Quarter..."

Brandon attempts to interject. "I don't..."

"There's Capitol Hill," says the assistant manager. "It's more pricey up there. There's Georgetown and that's even pricier. They have a restaurant called 1789. That should almost be what they charge for a table. Ha!"

No laugh...again. This isn't going anywhere and Kelly's waiting. They were simple salad-burger-good chicken people anyway. Chances are they'll eat what they can pronounce. Brandon readies himself to speak, but he's interrupted by a man in a nice suit patting the assistant manager's shoulder and then flipping through a folder. The man has a gold nametag reading Jacques.

"We gave the Duncans our best table," says Jacques in a French accent.

"Wait, you have a restaurant here?" says Brandon.

"A restaurant!" cries Jacques. "Well, it's only the best hotel restaurant in the area. The critic from Frommer's practically fainted! The gentlemen from the Zagat was almost speechless!"

Jacques is a far cry from his friend. He at least sounds excited about what he's recommending. Brandon leans forward.

"And you don't need a reservation?" says Brandon.

"Our guests are our first priority!" insists Jacques, then hitting the assistant manager with his folder. "Johnathan, why didn't you tell him?"

Johnathan shrugs, sniffles, and goes to the other side of the desk.

"I've just seen the seminar and luncheon rooms," says Brandon.

"Say no more!" says Jacques. "You must be with the students going to the White House? Am I right? Hmmm?"

Brandon tries to smile as modestly as possible. Jacques nods to himself.

"Well, I'm entertaining a lady friend too," says Brandon.

He waves to Kelly, who gives him a little grin.

"We're definitely the right place then," says Jacques. "Picture this. Champagne in sparkling glasses..."

"Oh, we can't drink yet," admits Brandon.

"Sparkling cider in champagne glasses," corrects Jacques. "Low lighting. Romantic atmosphere. Why, we even have a violinist who will play your lady friend her favorite song. For a small price of course."

"It'll have to be small," murmurs Brandon.

"She looks at you, and you look at her," says Jacques, softly. "And it'll be like the first time you kissed..."

"After a square dance," says Brandon.

"What?" blurts out Jacques, but quickly righting himself. "I've...never heard that from a guest before. Country music? But a dance is a dance."

"You haven't seen me dance," insists Brandon.

"So?" says Jacques with a mischevious expression.

Kelly did look awfully tired and they would be in walking distance to his room. His room. Okay, the weirdness associated with this just entered his mind. Kelly wouldn't be eating breakfast up there with him tonight. They would be...hmm, he isn't sure what they will be doing. There is a couch, and there is a bed. Who knew two pieces of furniture could mean two different things? It's not like they haven't woken up under the same roof before. Kelly had been over his house all throughout high school and he even noticed what brand of toothpaste she used once. But this was different. Even near strangers like Jacques could tell a spark has started. Brandon nods slowly.

"I'll get you that table," says Jacques in an enthusiastic whisper.

Jacques leaves as Brandon hears a nasally voice about a foot away.

"_Don't tear my heart, my achey breaky heart_," sings Johnathan. "_I just don't think you'd understand. Cause if you tell my heart, my achey breaky heart, he might just blow up and kill this man..."_

Brandon lets out a low whistle after Johnathan smiles at him.

III.

It's all gone in one swoop, like so many things. Dylan hears the clatter of the candlesticks, the forks and knives as he moves the remnants of ruined romance into a box. Erica's sweet surprise is no more. Angling the box beneath his arm, Dylan walks back into the house and drops it onto a counter. This is a perfect start to the summer.

He should've had no expectations. Sure, he told Erica that she was raising hers, but what he was hiding is that he was starting to raise his, especially when Brenda came over. Their time at Mardi Gras pushed his hopes to a new level too. Then, the bombshell drops, courtesy of Jim Walsh, their biggest fan: Brenda is going to England. For what? With who? Oh God, with who? That question is so not what he wants to be thinking right about now. What if there's some British type of Stuart, walking around quoting Shakespeare to her and letting her ride horses at his country estate? How can he compete with that?

Dylan flops down on his couch and stares at the door. He should go over and ask. But he knows her parents are home. He knows he might not like what he'll hear. But he'll know, you know? Dylan grips his hair as a few knocks sound on the door.

"It's unlocked!" calls Dylan.

"Where do you think we live, Mayberry?" says a voice as Dylan lifts his head.

Given the old reference, it has to be someone older than forty or a fan of late night, classic TV.

"Hey, Nat," offers Dylan.

Nat enters the living room, clothed in a long-sleeved blue shirt and tan slacks. It was the outfit he wore at Kevin and Suzanne's wedding. His hair hasn't remained neat, though, sticking up in its usual, casual way.

"I'm locking this," says Nat, flipping the switch on the door.

"My appliances thank you," says Dylan, blinking at the ceiling.

"You weren't this down at the wedding," says Nat. "I came by to drop off a letter for Suzanne. What happened to you?"

"What always happens," answers Dylan. "A karmic laugh at Dylan McKay."

"Come again?" says Nat.

Normally, he wouldn't be so apt to share his troubles with anybody, but this is Nat, who basically is the closest adult he has to a father now, and Nat trusted him enough to be his Pit partner. He isn't going to do any better.

"I think I have a shot...with this certain girl, and since I ruined it the first time, she, although innocently, ruins it the next time," offers Dylan.

"Brenda," guesses Nat.

Heh, fast conclusion. Alright, it's an obvious conclusion.

"Everybody I get attached to leaves," says Dylan, flopping back down. "Why I thought this would be different is a mystery to me."

"How long is she gone for?" asks Nat.

"I'm not sure," replies Dylan.

"Why is she leaving?" says Nat.

"I don't know," says Dylan.

"What the heck are you complaining about?" says Nat, making Dylan jolt up.

"Cause she...," starts Dylan.

"'Cause she'? You don't have any information, and you're just moping around on the couch," says Nat. "She could be back in no time. She may have no choice. Get over there and talk to the girl."

"Nat, I love you, but come on," defends Dylan. "I was part of the reason Brenda had a hard time after France. And suddenly I'm going to bother her before she takes off for Europe again? I have and should have no say in her cross-country adventures."

"Last time I checked, having a mature conversation isn't having your say," says Nat.

"Because I was really mature the summer she went to France," dead-pans Dylan.

"Dylan, you've changed," says Nat, sitting in the chair opposite Dylan. "You helped run a business this year. You're starting that business with Kevin on your own dime. You've reenrolled in school. You are a great big brother to Erica."

Dylan sighs. Nat has a point, like always, but it's easy to shoot those off than to have Brenda fully believe them. Or maybe, it's not? She did react positively to the speech about different paths to love and to everything he's said since they were together at the bumper cars.

"You could be the best man you can be, for her," says Nat.

"Best man," chuckles Dylan. "You're just saying that because we just left a wedding."

"I'm not fooling anybody," confesses Nat, reaching over to hit Dylan on the knee. "Did you call Kevin about the down payment?"

"Not yet," replies Dylan.

"Dylan, you need to do that...," admonishes Nat.

"Alright, alright," interjects Dylan. "I'll talk to Brenda first and Kevin tomorrow."

"Glad your priorities are in shape," says Nat.

"I learned from the best," says Dylan, standing up and clapping Nat on the back. "I need a bite first. Where's that whipped cream brownie whatever?"

Nat frowns. "The diet you kids have disturbs me."

IV.

Usually, she enjoys dinner with her parents with Brandon gone. She didn't have to listen to her dad and Brandon incessant sports talk; her parents were respectful when she told them about how stressed she was over classes, particularly her co-student mother; they were helping pay for her education and they didn't throw that in her face despite Brandon's scholarships. But tonight she can't enjoy it and she's not voicing it because she's not voicing anything. She's tempted to change that. Really tempted. This is made easier when her father provides her with the perfect catalyst.

"I thought Dylan would be out of town helping with that business," says Jim, shaking some pepper onto his pasta.

"Oh my God," mutters Brenda.

He's seriously mentioning Dylan after what occured at Mardi Gras? Seriously? Brenda slices a pea with her fork. The fork clinks loudly against the plate.

"Brenda," says Cindy, her voice going up on the last vowel of her name.

"It was an observation," says Jim. "I'm amazed he's trusting Kevin with setting it up. Seems like he's had a bunch of failed business ventures."

"Too bad Dylan's not an accountant," speaks up Brenda.

Jim sets his utensils down and stares at his daughter. Brenda meets his eye, not wary in the slightest.

"Young lady, that's uncalled for," says Jim.

"So is what you said to Dylan," returns Brenda. "I wanted to be the one who told him about England. He should've heard it from me."

"We figured he knew," says Jim.

He gestures to his wife, who appears flummoxed. Yeah, right, Dad, thinks Brenda.

"You figure a lot of things," groans Brenda, crossing her arms. "Do you ever tell Brandon's exes where he's going this summer, or do you let him tell them?"

Her father bites down on his lip.

"Exactly," says Brenda. "I'm not hungry."

Brenda pushes out of her chair and returns her plate of pasta to the counter. She walks speedily to the foyer and prays she's not being followed. Unfortunately, she is, hearing her father's familiar pennyloafers cross the carpet of the living room. Can't he give her a minute? He should get why she's upset. Dylan was crushed and she hadn't prepped him at all for the blow. She doesn't care how much her father is mad with the guy; he didn't deserve to be blind-sided.

"I'm trying to protect you," says Jim.

She freezes in the middle of the foyer. After a couple seconds, she turns to him.

"From what?" says Brenda. "I'm an adult. I get to choose my friends."

"Brenda, we both know Dylan wants to be more than a friend," says Jim. "He always does."

"Actually, I don't," insists Brenda.

What Dylan wants to be is unclear, but she would like him to be in her life and that's crystal clear.

"He broke your heart the last time you went away," says Jim. "You seem to have forgotten."

No matter how true that is, that's not the point. But she's having a hard time saying so as a lump forms in her throat. Painful reminders kind of do that to her.

"How could I forget?" says Brenda tearfully.

"Brenda, I can't see you like that again," says Jim. "You deserve to be at the Academy. You deserve this chance for yourself. And you deserve to be happy."

Brenda purses her lips and finds her body travelling to the stairwell to lean against it. The last three things he said, she can't argue with. She has worked hard to be given a chance like this and nothing could make her throw it away. Luckily, this appears to be where her father is content to leave the arguement. He confirms it with a final sentence.

"I don't want to leave your mother alone while she eats," says Jim.

Yeah, he'd rather leave her alone to think. Well, she's not doing it in this house, with him. Brenda grabs her jacket and steps onto the stoop, bumping into something large that mumbles her name. Or someone. Dylan's face works itself into a smile and stays there. Brenda decides to stay there too.

"It's so late, but...," begins Dylan.

"Dylan, I can explain," says Brenda when his voice trails off.

"That's why I came," says Dylan.

Brenda grins and wipes away a few tears. She didn't relish Dylan finding her while she was crying, but she is glad he came. He left so abruptly and before she could convince herself to follow him, her parents convinced her to go home. She won't waste this opportunity.

"Why are you crying?" asks Dylan.

Her face falls. Telling him would make both of them revisit the summer before senior year. Why does she have to relive that point in her life? Why can't she be less sensitive? Actresses train themselves to hide their feelings and project certain expressions. She has yet to do that. She can't...with this.

"Dylan," says Brenda, burying her face in his chest.

"Bren," says Dylan.

He rubs her shoulders with his hands, something he often did when they dated, when she needed comfort. She lets her nose bump against the center of his shirt. There's a hint of his favorite aftershave. He must've worn it for the wedding and not for her. They're not dating, she reminds herself. Dylan has no obligation to wait for her while she's on this European trip. He has no obligation to contact her. He has every right to not like what he's about to hear.

"I'm going to England," says Brenda, staring up at him.

"Yeah, we established that," says Dylan, laughing gently.

"To the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts," breathes Brenda. "For the whole summer."

"Brenda!" exclaims Dylan.

The exclamation is confusing, and Dylan's eyes go wide. Brenda tries to read his face.

"That's amazing!" says Dylan, hugging her tightly. "What the...wow!"

Brenda calls out when he lifts her and spins her around in a circle. The porch light goes blurry as Brenda's head goes from side to side. He finally sets her down.

"You're not disappointed?" says Brenda.

"Disappointed that you didn't tell me sooner!" replies Dylan. "Did Roy have you audition or..."

"He put in a good word for me," says Brenda, nodding. "It's a top program. I'm still pinching myself."

"All summer!" cries Dylan.

He says this happily, and then to himself, a reverse in tone.

"All summer," says Dylan.

"All summer," repeats Brenda. "Dylan, you kept asking me about this summer and I should've been upfront the first time..."

Dylan briefly massages his forehead and lets his gaze drop to the floor. It's not like she didn't feel guilty withholding the information.

"Then, Dad blurted it out," says Brenda.

"That sucked," says Dylan bluntly.

"I made sure he got that memo," assures Brenda.

He puts his hands in his pockets and paces a couple of times. This must be a lot to take in, but she's eager to see how he takes it. This didn't have to be the end, right? Dylan said he would like to travel this summer and they could cross the pond together. That was an invitation to reconnect if ever she heard one.

"Why is he involved anyway?" asks Dylan.

"Dylan!" says Brenda.

"How many times do I have to pass the Jim Walsh approval test?" says Dylan. "He obviously said what he did to throw it in my face!"

"He wants to protect me," insists Brenda.

"From me?" cries Dylan. "Meanwhile, he's free to throw arrows!"

"Dylan, calm down," says Brenda.

"He puts down my business," says Dylan. "He puts down Kevin. He puts me down. Pretty soon, he'll have you believing it."

"What is it with you two?" exclaims Brenda. "You both think I can't make up my own mind?"

She stands in front of him, halting his paces.

"I can," says Brenda, looking into his eyes. "I want to spend time with you. I want to see what's going to happen. You're hearing that straight from me. Call me when you have made up _your_ mind."

With an arch of her eyebrows, Brenda goes back into the house, closing the door. She notices a hand aggresively turn the knob, preventing her from locking the door. Brenda parts the door.

"I have," says Dylan.

He wraps his hands around her waist and brings his mouth against hers, Brenda tottering on her feet. She rubs his shoulders this time, to keep herself from falling. His lips feel firm and sure, like they haven't been lost to her for all those days and nights. This is why she firmly fought. Dylan McKay can't be a casualty of the wars that have happened; he can only be someone she can't lose when it's over. Brenda returns the kiss with fervor and doesn't fight the feelings. Why debate where to go? They can be home and still be a world away.

V.

"You clean up good," assesses Brandon.

Kelly moves her purse from her left shoulder to her right. She demurely winds his arm around his.

"First fashion rule, never go anywhere without a little black dress," says Kelly, wrinkling her nose.

Especially a form-fitting black dress. She wanted to look as great as Audrey Hepburn in _Breakfast at Tiffany's_. Brandon was definitely sharp in a tasteful black suit and red tie.

They walk to the maitre'd's podium and glance around the restaurant. After Brandon described it to her, she thought it would be called something like Joie de Vivre or Bon Appetite, but its name is the very unromantic The Capitol Restaurant. She had to run the spellings in her brain because at first, she thought it was "capital", as in money. She didn't want Brandon to spend a lot of money on her, especially since this trip was all about Brandon and his accomplishments. It's funny because she used to be very picky about the restaurants guys took her to in high school. Going to the Peach Pit kind of broke that habit, and here she is, dating the best former Peach Pit waiter. She couldn't care less where they went. However, she wasn't big on anywhere where she had to wear one of those large lobster bibs. They were on the East Coast...

"Table for Walsh," says a man in a nice suit, nudging Brandon.

They've obviously met. Wait. He's the guy from the front desk. She reads his nametag. Jacques.

"That'd be us," says Brandon.

The three of them walk into the main room of the restaurant. Immediately, Kelly notices that they're the youngest in the room. Given the elegant outfits and stuffy suits the men and women are wearing, she's wondering if they're in the presence of senators and Supreme Court justices. The Chancellor is one thing, but the people who decide the laws of the entire country is another. She hangs her head slightly. Brandon pats her hand before they're seated at a table near a window.

"I'll go see if what we talked about is ready," says Jacques, nodding at Brandon.

Curious, Kelly cocks her head towards Brandon.

"Talked about?" says Kelly.

"The happy birthday cake I ordered for myself," says Brandon.

"I'm well aware of your birthday, Brandon," says Kelly. "You and Brenda have the same one."

"Fancy that," says Brandon, straightening his tie.

Kelly laughs and rests her hands on the table. Brandon reaches over to put a hand on hers.

"You're not nervous at all?" asks Kelly.

"Should I be?" says Brandon, squeezing her hand.

Kelly's cheeks grow crimson.

"No," says Kelly. "I mean, you _are _meeting the president of the United States tomorrow."

"Oh, him," realizes Brandon. "Well, Bill and I are old friends. We'll talk golf, we'll be fine..."

"Brandon," says Kelly.

"You're right," sighs Brandon. "I guess you'll have to come with me so I don't make a fool of myself."

Go with him? To the White House? Alright, they went to the White House earlier, but they were tourists. Millions of tourists pass or visit the White House. Meeting the President happens to maybe six in a million people. Kelly's jaw drops.

"I couldn't do that," says Kelly.

"Why not?" says Brandon.

"I don't have a ticket," replies Kelly.

"I got so much guff for being the Chancellor's lackey," says Brandon. "I can talk him into another ticket. Plus...he loves you."

His eyes light up and Kelly looks away. Why would he be nervous when he's the one having no trouble with what he says to her? At least that's what he acts like or how she reads it.

"Do you want to go?" asks Brandon.

"Yeah, I want to go," admits Kelly. "What do you think I should say?"

"Always pack a little black dress?" provides Brandon.

Kelly takes a sugar packet and throws it in his direction. Brandon catches it and chuckles. His laughter is soon covered by the soft plucks of a violin, rising in volume after each passing second. Kelly stares at Brandon cluelessly and then at a man with glasses approaching their table. He beams and stands next to Kelly. Brandon appraises the man thoughtfully. The man clears his throat and starts another song. It's faster and light-hearted...and so familiar. Brandon's eyes shoot up and shake his head.

"Stop!" calls Jacques. "Stop!"

Jacques joins their party, the rest of the restaurant goers whispering among themselves.

"Turkey in the Straw!" exclaims Jacques. "What kind of girl likes Turkey in the Straw?"

"You said square dance," defends the man, straightening his eyeglasses.

"I said that's where they had their first moment!" says Jacques. "I wrote Moon River! Moon River!"

"I love that song!" speaks up a woman with a blonde chignon and pearls.

"Your handwriting is atrocious...that's not my fault," says the violinist, walking away with defiance.

Jacques gives Brandon a short bow and kisses Kelly's hand.

"My apologies, miss!" says Jacques. "Hey...hey, come back here!"

Running after the violinist, Jacques disappears from view. Kelly hides her mouth behind her napkin. That's when Kelly can't hold it in any longer and laughs heartily, until she can barely breathe. Brandon lowers his head to his hands.

"Kill me," groans Brandon.

"No...no, that was...that was so...so sweet," says Kelly though quickly drawn breaths.

But she can't stop laughing. Pretty soon, the whole room is laughing and so is Brandon. He throws up his arms and the rest of the room applauds him. When everything's settled down, Kelly leans over and kisses Brandon on the lips.

"How'd you guess the right song?" questions Kelly after their lips have separated.

"Brenda was watching the movie...I think, junior year," recalls Brandon. "I asked her what on earth she was watching. She said that you leant her the movie and that it had your favorite song. Then she told me to get out."

"You are unbelievable," says Kelly, putting a hand over her heart. "Thank you."

"You came all this way," says Brandon. "One grand gesture deserves another."

"We're even," insists Kelly. "No more."

"One more...the ticket," says Brandon.

He points past Kelly and they both see Chancellor Arnold at a corner table, and someone else who Kelly can't see because he or she has her face hidden behind a menu.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," promises Brandon.

Quickly standing, he hurries over to the Chancellor. Chancellor Arnold clearly doesn't mind his presence, grinning as soon as Brandon nears him. Neither does his dinner buddy, Clare, fully recognizable when she lowers her menu. She smirks at Kelly. Why? Kelly clears her throat and starts to read the list of entrees. She hears the scratch of chair legs being dragged against the floor and wonders if the woman with pearls went to fix her chignon in the restroom.

"Kelly," greets Clare.

Kelly spies Clare's elbows before any other part of her body. She meets Clare's eyes.

"Hi, Clare," says Kelly. "How are you?"

"Dandy," replies Clare. "Can we talk?"

She's about to explain that she's waiting for Brandon, but doesn't get the chance.

"Thanks," says Clare, dropping into Brandon's chair. "I hate restaurant bread. It makes you get fat. So...how many rolls have you had?"

Kelly clenches her jaw.

"Um, we haven't gotten bread," says Kelly. "The thing I hate is when it gets stuck in your teeth."

That was a more subtle jab, but Clare instinctively checks her teeth in a fork and Kelly's pretty happy that she does. Clare clicks her tongue.

"Brandon's a real charmer," says Clare.

"I guess so," says Kelly, resuming reading her menu.

"Maybe that's why Lucinda showed up," muses Clare. "He did tell you she was here, didn't he?"

Kelly drops her menu and wrinkles her brow. Lucinda? As in his ex Lucinda? No, he didn't tell her.

"Of course, she had some competition for his affections," says Clare. "Mainly me."

A waiter puts a bread basket on the table, then backs off when Clare shoos him away. High schooler Clare as competition? She's got to be kidding, which would be so like her. Kelly shakes her head.

"He found me in the shower and let's just say it got real steamy real quick," sighs Clare. "Room 507. Brandon's body? You could cut diamonds on that chest."

When did she see his chest? And how'd she get his hotel room number? Kelly fusses with her hair and throws Brandon a dubious look.

"Then you came, Lucinda bailed, and I'm...still around," continues Clare. "It's nice to have three options. The wisdom that comes with Lucinda's age, my youthful enthusiasm, and your...experience."

"Screw you, Clare," says Kelly, narrowing her eyes.

Clare snatches the menu from Kelly. She flips the first page and shrugs.

"I'm repeating what I heard from the task force guys- slash-future leaders of the States," says Clare. "Preps talk, and according to them? You're an all-you-can eat buffet."

Hugging herself, Kelly blinks repeatedly at the table. It's the same fears she's had, confirmed to her by a seventeen-year old who is regularly with the people she'd surround herself with at the White House. If she has her way, Brandon won't be showing her off to them, especially since he showed off his hard rock body to Clare this weekend.

"Has Brandon had a bite yet?" says Clare with a wink.

There's a second scratching of chair legs, her own. Kelly leaves the table, her whole body hotter than any of the steaming food being set in front of the customers.

"Check," says Clare joyfully behind her.

"Miss?" says Jacques as Kelly passes him.

She didn't want to talk to him or anybody else. How could Brandon say he was falling for her when he was with Clare a day or two ago? All these great attributes she thought he had? Totally down the drain. He can forget dinner and forget about her.

But it's not that easy. It's never easy. Maybe they wouldn't be an easy couple to understand and this is the first warning? At least with Clare, they'd travel in the same circles. Kelly lets out a low cry and rushes to the elevator. She presses the button repeatedly. Fifth floor. These stupid things always take so long.

"Kelly!" says the last voice she wants to hear.

Brandon nearly runs into a lobby armchair trying to catch up to her. The elevator door clangs open seconds before he can touch her. She goes inside and ambles her way between two businessmen. Brandon leaps to stop the elevator doors from clanging.

"Leave me alone, Brandon!" exclaims Kelly. "There are other people on here."

"Where are you going?" asks Brandon.

"I don't want to talk to you!" cries Kelly, tears streaming past her cheeks.

"What did I do?" says Brandon.

"Will you two young people please carry on with this off the elevator?" shouts one of the businessmen. "We already had to come down four floors for her."

"Sir, we don't have a problem," says Brandon. "Not a problem I'm aware of..."

"Ask Clare," says Kelly.

"She wouldn't tell me why you left," replies Brandon. "Let's talk, Kel."

Brandon extends his hand out for Kelly to take.

"Please," says Brandon.

"I'm sorry," sobs Kelly.

She presses button number four, having no clue where to go or what to do when she gets there. The elevator ascends as her heart drops.


	6. When He Shines

**VI. When He Shines**

_This Man's a child_  
_this man is old_  
_sometimes he's mild_  
_sometimes he's bold_  
_This man I love sometimes in spite_  
_of wishing he'd stick to his guns or_  
_abandon the fight_

_But when he shines, oh when he shines_  
_yes, when he shines, he shines so bright_

_Sometimes a tramp, sometimes a dude_  
_He changes colors just like a chameleon_  
_can't find the mood_  
_He is a song that's not easy to write_  
_He's the moon in the morning and the sun_  
_out at night_

_But when he shines, when he shines oh when he shines_  
_he shines so bright._

_This man's a gentle man, this man is strong_  
_this temperemental man plays me along_

_But when he shines, when he shines, oh when he shines_  
_he shines so bright_

_yes when he shines, when he shines, oh when he shines_  
_he shines so bright_

_but when he shines, oh when he shines, yes, when he shines, he shines so _  
_bright._

**AN: Sorry for the wait. There's more Dylan/Bren in the next chapter, which I promise to upload sooner.**

**When He Shines is the property of Sheena Easton.**

He has to have a picture somewhere. Fumbling through his wallet, Brandon bypasses his insurance cards, license, voter's registration card, and the few photographs of his family. Please let there be one, he thinks. If he could think, he could concentrate. If he could concentrate, he could think. Everything's just going around and around. Okay, clear your mind. You have to find her. He'd checked the floor of his room and no Kelly. Maybe she requested another room? Brandon straightens his shoulders and goes to an employee coming out of an elevator while slipping a lighter into his pocket.

"Excuse me, sir," says Brandon. "Have you seen a young woman come through...blonde in a black dress, attractive, pretty mad?"

"No, sorry," replies the employee. "But I do see a young woman waving right behind you."

Brandon scrunches his features, not sure of how Kelly could've returned to the lobby without him noticing.

"Brandon!" calls an overly upbeat voice.

He winces. He'd made it a point not to talk to her but sure enough, she had missed it. Brandon clears his throat, secretly wishing that the Chancellor is with her. Not so fortunate. Clare walks confidently to Brandon and plays with his collar.

"Daddy's having drinks with one of his Condor buddies, and I managed to get away," says Clare. "And I'm wondering if we could have our own little nightcap? I can procure some Merlot from a CU senior or two."

"Clare, I'm sure you could procure anything you set your mind to, but I'm not interested," says Brandon, gently removing her hand from his neck.

"Alright," shrugs Clare. "We'll skip the wine and go straight to the handcuffs."

Brandon shakes his head, side-stepping her. "Go to your room, Clare."

"Look, let's get real," says Claire as she trails him. "Lucinda's gone. Kelly's obviously gone. And you're obviously hurting for some serious action. Or else you would've told me to split when you found me in your room."

The memory of Clare in a robe stretched across his bed seems like it was a lifetime ago. That's a picture he'd be more than happy to not find in his mind. Brandon faces her without flinching, putting two strong hands on her shoulders. Clare grins widely.

"One, you let yourself into my room," says Brandon. "Two, I've switched my room since then so you clearly haven't done your homework."

Clare rolls her eyes and sucks her lip, none too pleased with the new information.

"Three, Kelly hasn't left and I have to go," continues Brandon. "So go to an art museum, visit an underage club, or watch soap operas all weekend. I don't care. But enjoy Washington on your own terms because what you want to happen? Isn't going to happen."

"Be honest," sighs Clare with a smile. "This is just you boosting your ego by playing hard to get."

"Good-bye, Clare," says Brandon, gliding past her without another word.

The girl, and he literally meant _girl_, can't take no for an answer. He won't waste his time when Kelly could be anywhere. He'd try the floor of his room one more time and then he'd call Donna or Bren to see if they'd heard from her.

Brandon gets on the elevator, watching the small buttons light up and go dark until he reaches the fifth floor. The door opens to an empty hallway but he'd go check the corners. Even if he did find her, would she talk to him? She seemed so upset. What could've changed her mood so drastically? He was missing for all of three minutes. This has basically been their first fight since...well, becoming whatever their relatonship is shaping up to be. He and Brenda have had some intense fights but Kelly isn't his sister...or simply a friend anymore. Brandon wanted to reassure her of that fact, soothe any worries she had. Unfortunately, he only comes across a worried mother shouting for her kids to slow down as they make their way to the elevator in swimming suits. A girl with curly, red hair and a boy with unruly blonde hair fly by Brandon, nearly knocking him to the floor.

"I'm sorry, sir," says their mother, a petite woman with her scarlet hair in a side braid. "Colette, Stefan. What do you say?"

"Mom, we didn't hit him!" protests Stefan, then checking with Brandon. "Did we, mister?"

"I live to block another day," replies Brandon.

"That's not the point," insists his mother.

"Yeah, Stefan," says Colette, hitting him with her seahorse innertube. "That's not the point."

"Why are all these older kids here, anyway?" groans Stefan.

"They must be on a band trip," reasons Colette with confidence. "That's like a honeymoon for high school students. I saw a clarinet player give a tuba player a French kiss in this hallway once."

"I told you not to spy on people and mind your own business," reprimands their mother.

"But we're French," defends Colette. "I have to know how to French kiss."

"Ewwww," says Stefan.

"You're too young to think about kissing anyone!" insists their mother. "Once again, sir, we're sorry. We'll let you get back to..."

"So what instrument do you play?" interrupts Colette.

"Oh, I'm in my first year of college," explains Brandon. "I'm in the student government. Student body president."

"How wonderful!" says their mother.

"I'm bored now," admits Colette.

Brandon frowns. Okay, yeah, he was more into Boy Scouts at their age, but he thought they'd be a little impressed, or maybe not. He hopes he'll impress tomorrow what with the President and Congress members in close vicinity. Still, Stefan seems a bit intrigued.

"Is that pretty blonde woman your vice president?" asks Stefan. "I think if Clinton met her first, he wouldn't have chosen Hilary. That's what I would've done."

His mother's mouth falls open in frustration. She instantly grabs Stefan's arm. Kelly? Kelly! Brandon does block the boy this time, determined to question him.

"You two really need a lesson in what not to say to complete strangers...," begins their mother.

"No, wait," pleads Brandon. "I think you can help me. Did you see where the woman went? She's...she's a friend of mine."

"She went to the door to the roof," says Stefan.

The roof? Why didn't he mull over that possibility in his brain? Probably because I didn't know there was access to it, thinks Brandon. Well, this will be a covert mission he'd pull off by himself. It may be cold up there and she's there alone? Ugh, he has to get to her. He gives Stefan a grateful pat and nods at the female family members.

"You're a lifesaver," compliments Brandon, jogging down the hall.

"Hey!" yells Colette, making him stop in his tracks.

"Yeah?" says Brandon.

"Do you want my seahorse? It saved me...from a giant wave," says Colette, clearly wanting to outdo her brother.

"Uh," says Brandon, before going through the door, "No thanks."

He climbs the stairwell two steps at the time. His heart pounds like a tribal drum, a sound he liked formerly but was ruined for him by Lucinda. But she won't ruin this night, nor would Clare, the Chancellor, or a single person below them. Brandon swings the door open. Cool air races past his cheeks. His dress shoes patter against the pavement as he steps out into the night. Glowing marble buildings shine across the nighttime horizon. Kelly's pale skin is almost as luminescent as she stands under the stars, newly out, that have barely been out of hiding for two hours. The palms of her hands rest on her elbows. She bounces against the soles of her feet to feel warmth. He wishes she would let him give her warmth. Her hair is loose, down, floating haphazardly in light spring breezes. Brandon braces himself and walks to her. He clears his throat, not sure of what words to say.

He finally speaks. "Kel?"

Kelly turns partly. Her eyes are wet, sad. He can't bear her crying while he does nothing. Brandon advances to her, takes her shaking body in his arms.

"We can't," says Kelly, after a moment, pushing him away.

"Can't what?" asks Brandon.

Kelly stays silent for a second, raising his level of nervousness. Can't talk? Can't date? Can't continue being close like they were earlier tonight? Brandon's stomach clenches at the thought of every one of those thoughts. He wants to put in the effort, the work, so why won't she tell him?

"My dad disappointed me...Dylan disappointed me...," breathes Kelly, her voice disappearing into a passing breeze.

"You're losing me, Kel," says Brandon cluelessly.

"I had these high hopes and...," says Kelly.

She isn't finishing any of her sentences. It's almost like she's trying to put a finish to them. He has to know the reason, though. Or he'll never forgive himself.

"I have high hopes...for us," assures Brandon. "But we're not going to get there if we're not connecting."

"True," says Kelly under her breath.

"So...so lay it out flat," encourages Brandon. "Nobody's here except you and me. Whatever I did, let me know."

Squinting her eyes briefly, Kelly looks at him head to toe. Is he supposed to understand why she's mad? She has to give him a little bit of a clue.

"Clare," says Kelly, uncrossing her arms. "Brandon, of all the people in the city, you have her in your room?"

Brandon pulls at his tie, then shakes his head. As usual, Clare had made a mountain out of a molehill. She was a piece of work. He can only guess what she'd told Kelly and frankly, he doesn't want to guess. She was out of line. That's all he needed to hear, but Kelly definitely needs to hear what really went on.

"She was in my room right after I checked in...in fact, she was showering," says Brandon. "Kelly, I got out of there as soon as possible."

Kelly's gaze brightens, though faintly. She hasn't been fully convinced. He'll have to keep going.

"You're the only girl that has been in my new room, the room I requested shortly after Clare's shower stint," says Brandon.

"You...you really didn't plan it?" says Kelly.

"Absolutely not," replies Brandon. "My home of 537 is very happy to have you as my chosen guest."

"537," repeats Kelly to herself. "Not...oh, I mixed up the 0 and the 3! Clare said 507! She was just so..."

"Adamant?" says Brandon. "Yeah, that's an Arnold trait. 507 was my old room."

Releasing a heavy sigh, Kelly lets her shoulders relax. A single number had caused the uproar. Although, he should've...maybe told her about Clare and Lucinda arriving at the hotel out of the blue. The whole weekend has been so weird, and wonderful, that he didn't think that it was absolutely necessary. Better to get it out in the open. Kelly gently wipes her tears away. Brandon grins and takes care of the last drop with his finger.

"I had no idea those girls would be here," promises Brandon.

"Your smart secret lover and your brassy, former prom date?" says Kelly half-jokingly.

"Well, you're my Spring Queen, my promenade partner, and my task-force travel buddy," says Brandon. "That's three to one."

"I really like those odds," says Kelly, resting her head against his chest.

Brandon brings up his face to meet her eyes.

"I have a lot of goals in life, Kelly," says Brandon. "This trip is proof of that. But I can tell you, without hesitation, that disappointing you isn't one of them. I'm very, very in this. For the long haul."

"I'm very in this too," says Kelly softly. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," says Brandon, kissing her squarely on the lips.

Kelly winds her arms around him, Brandon blinking at the city stretched out in all its glory. He can view the red headlights of cars, the elegant shape of monuments, the gold tops of taxi cabs. Washington is in motion. So are they, moving forward, through words, with feelings. He keeps thinking this trip won't get better, but it does. It definitely does.

"Ah, what a beautiful night," says Brandon, putting an arm around Kelly as they break away.

She nods, the most enthusiastic she's been since he saw her.

"There's a moon...and a river," says Kelly. "This is our Moon River."

Brandon looks at the direction Kelly points to, indeed spying the dim outline of the Potomac River and a beautiful full moon set against the sky. He also notices that her small frame is shivering in the chilly air. He removes his jacket and puts it over her. His dress shirt would do. Kelly holds the jacket protectively. Her stomach is less guarded, groaning.

"Wow," says Kelly, pressing her fingers against her stomach. "I ruined the moment."

He chuckles, crouching to her stomach. "Hungry?"

"Brandon!" cries Kelly.

"I'm going to feed you," kids Brandon, putting a hand there. "Just...hold on."

"This is silly," says Kelly, laughing until her cheeks go red.

"Washington, D.C.!" shouts Brandon as his voice bounces back to them in cheerful echoes across the roof. "I promise you that I will quench the hunger of this terrific tourist that is gracing our presence. Whether it's 'My Country 'Tis of Thee' tacos or "Amber Waves of Grain" grilled cheese, names I'm making up but sound really good right now...we will...oh, yes, we will fill her stomach with delicious District of Columbia cuisine so she'll tell all her friends that only you deserve the title of 'our nation's capital'!"

He glances at her for confirmation.

"I have nothing else to add," says Kelly with a wide smile.

"Room service!" exclaims Brandon, grabbing her hand as they race for the door.

II.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

There's a tomorrow. Of course, there are always tomorrows, but this coming tomorrow will be a different tomorrow. She, Brenda Walsh, can enjoy the next day with a person she didn't believe she'd be able to enjoy it with. Dylan propels the wooden swing in the Walsh backyard. They sit comfortably there after the several uncomfortable moments she's had in the same night. Dylan lets the crown of her head slip to the nape of his neck. She likes it there. Her parents are asleep. The weather is nice. She's almost dreading tomorrow if it's not like this.

"Stuff," answers Brenda teasingly.

"What kind of _stuff_?" says Dylan. "Forging checks as Laverne stuff or..."

"Hey, I would never do that!" says Brenda, gently hitting him on the knee.

"Oww," mutters Dylan. "Your hands are some lethal weapons. Keep them to yourself."

With Brenda gripping his knee, Dylan makes no further protests. She's glad.

"I have to get this stupid student travel card," remembers Brenda with a groan. "My dad says it'll help with miscellaneous costs."

What's more, apparently, is that she gets cheaper admissions rates for any museums, landmarks, or certain plays and films. She's fairly certain she'll take advantage of some of these but not to the point her father's probably guessing. The truth is that she's going to mainly focus on her craft. She'd be in the company of a slew of talented actors so she has to raise her game.

"If we go together, I could take care of whatever you needed to be taken care of," insists Dylan.

"No, Dylan," says Brenda. "You're not touching a cent of your money on my account."

"Once my business takes off, it'll be like we never spent it," says Dylan.

"It's your cash to spend, not mine," says Brenda. "And I dislike echoing my father but you do have to be careful with it."

"Yeah, yeah," says Dylan, fixing the hood of her jacket.

"I'm serious, Dylan," says Brenda.

"I don't want to be serious," says Dylan in a low whisper. "Unless it's with you."

Brenda raises her head for a kiss as a window opens, with a voice coming out. Brenda stops moving, goes blank until Dylan says something.

"Speaking of Jim," remarks Dylan, smirking.

"Brenda?" repeats Jim, groggily.

Brenda disengages herself from Dylan, concentrating on ushering him from the swing to the shadows. Jim would totally flip if he saw Dylan at their house this late at night. Call her crazy but she wants Dylan to leave a good impression on him before they start dating again and definitely if he found out Dylan was in London with her. Despite her annoyance with him, she took what he said to heart. Her past with Dylan isn't perfect, even if it feels like it sometimes. She knows Dylan isn't his favorite person. Also, she wanted to spare Dylan from any more insults tonight. He got pretty wound up and she didn't want him to think less of himself. Separating them, at least for tonight, is the best solution until she can handle it all.

"Dylan, stay here," whispers Brenda forcefully.

"Come on, Bren," whispers Dylan.

"He's already ticked," says Brenda. "I tell him about you when things have blown over. Could you? Please? Just for now."

With a light groan, Dylan tumbles into a group of shrubs her mother planted. He gives Brenda an amused glance and lays against the grass.

"Hey Dad!" calls Brenda.

Dylan tugs on her shoelace, Brenda gesturing for him to cool it.

"It's really late, Bren!" calls Jim, his face appearing in the window. "Look, I shouldn't have blown up at you earlier."

"Jim," moans her unseen mother. "Go back to bed."

"Yeah, Jim," whispers Dylan in jest. "Go back to bed."

She kicks some dirt near Dylan's shoe and shushes him. Luckily, Jim is wiping his closed eyes.

"With you living with us, it still...it's still as if you're my little girl," says Jim. "I'm just being protective. We can discuss this later. I've got an early meeting in the morning. But don't forget about that card!"

Dylan scrambles to move as Jim opens his eyes and stares sweetly at Brenda. He hides so well even Brenda can't see him in the dark.

"I love you, Dad!" calls Brenda.

"Same here, princess," says Jim, grinning and shutting the window at the same time.

Brenda exhales, speedily peering through the shrubs. Dylan is locked in the embrace of...a garden hose. Brenda tries her best not to smile. Struggling, Dylan is unable to stand.

"Are you done fighting with the watering hose?" asks Brenda, raising an eyebrow.

"Be a princess and free me," says Dylan.

"After the shoelace pulling, Mom imitations, and hose hugging, I'm just not sure," kids Brenda.

"You're the one that pushed me out of the spotlight," says Dylan.

"Hello?" says Brenda. "Actress."

She's successful at unwinding the hose, untangling his limbs inch by inch. Dylan isn't too content on being free, however, pulling Brenda down suddenly. Her "lethal weapons" are held by his hands, preventing him from "harm". He kisses her forehead.

"This was fun," whispers Dylan.

"Wanna do some _stuff_ tomorrow?" asks Brenda.

"Stuff your dad can watch or...," begins Dylan cheekily.

Brenda rests her head near his neck a second time. "I'm tangling you up in the hose again."

III.

The spray is cold on her ear. The spritz almost rivals the temperature on the roof. The moment is here. Kelly truly didn't expect to return to Brandon's room, especially after Clare's vicious speech. She believed him. Why would Brandon lie, say otherwise? Kelly let her imagination run wild and predicted the worse. She hates when she does this. If he grew up in her home, he'd understand, though Brandon did a great job of being understanding. Her father gave her countless stories to avoid spending time with her. Her mother lied about her addiction and "love" affairs. And Dylan? Well, they both lied when they continued their relationship. They lied to themselves that their love hadn't faded long ago.

Kelly lowers the bottle of perfume. She brought this herself and hadn't planned on wearing it for anybody else. Can't she argue that the best moments, particulary here in Washington, are unplanned? Kelly puts her body against the door. She listens to the sound of shredded paper, clicking plastic utensils and chopsticks, two feet walking on carpet. These sounds could be labelled insignificant but they touch her. Brandon conceived no stories to delay time with her or hid any potentially dangerous secrets. Plus their relationship, as unplanned and undefined as it is, is closer to birth than death. These simple sounds mean so much.

She parts the door, watching Brandon close a carton of chicken fried rice. Two plates sit on the floor, along with two pillows he'd retrieved from the hotel couch. Kelly kicks away her heels. Among the spread, Brandon had ordered chicked fried rice, chow mein, vegetable rolls, a couple of egg rolls and a couple of fortune cookies. There are also a few additions from the mini-bar: a mini bag of pretzels, Twizzlers, Snickers, and a small bag of chocolate chip cookies. It was a fine buffet for two weary travellers who'd walked the streets of Washington for most of the day. Her own eyes travel to the queen-sized bed inches from Brandon's body. The bed is made, the sheets and blankets tucked into the corners. Kelly's face goes crimson before she hurries to sit by Brandon.

"Open your cookie," suggests Kelly. "I want to hear what it says."

"You're not going to let me scarf down more chow mein first?" says Brandon with mock resistance. "Oh, alright."

Brandon cracks the fortune cookie and reads the slip of white paper.

"You will order more chow mein or we will kill you," says Brandon.

"Come on!" insists Kelly. "For real."

"A secret admirer will soon send you a sign of affection," reads Brandon, clearly pleased.

"Wow," says Kelly.

"This cookie's trying to get me in trouble again," groans Brandon, the two of them sharing a laugh. "What's yours say?"

Kelly gently parts the cookie and opens her fortune.

"You will be invited to an exciting event," reads Kelly. "Ha!"

"Can't get more exciting than meeting the president," says Brandon, high-fiving her.

She lets her fingers linger once their palms have met. Brandon freezes his fingers too. If this secret admirer doesn't show, she's more than willing to take her place. Brandon lets his fingers slide to the middle of her arm. He brings her closer. The closed food carton scoots off his lap and tumbles to the carpet. Her stomach's full and so is her heart. Kelly sighs.

"I can think of something that's more exciting," says Kelly. "And I _have_ been admiring for years."

Kelly undoes the first two buttons on Brandon's dress shirt. They reveal a smooth, solid chest underneath an undershirt. Brandon moves a hair that has fallen into her face.

"I think I should return your affection," whispers Brandon.

He briefly kisses her bare shoulder, letting his hand crawl to the zipper of her dress. Brandon tenderly slides the zipper to an area just above her waist. She moans as his thumb rests on the latch of her white bra.

"Excite me, Brandon," whispers Kelly, yanking on his undershirt.

Brandon needs no further invitation. He moves his mouth with hers, gently forcing her to stand. This is it. They're actually doing it. She wondered when the moment would be right and she has no doubts that this is right. They walk backwards to the bed. Brandon pulls his tie out of place while Kelly speedily removes her stockings. Their brief separation is halted, Brandon leaning her into the comforter. He kisses the whole of her neck, smiling the entire time. Her heart shivers in her ribcage. Brandon slides her dress to her waist, passionately kissing her until he breaks to draw a breath. Kelly arches her body, kneading Brandon's back.

"You make me not think straight," sighs Brandon between their open mouths. "We can stop. Are you sure?"

"So sure," sighs Kelly, nodding. "I've never wanted anyone more."

He exhales his relief, running a hand over her forehead, through her hair.

"I have something in my wallet," says Brandon.

"Hurry," says Kelly.

Brandon pushes himself off the bed and heads for the bathroom, where Kelly hung his jacket. She stares at the ceiling, beaming. Brandon had purposely, and for her now appealingly, stayed out of their circle of friends when it came to dating. So she never got the full skinny on how he was as a lover. Pretty fantastic, and they're only in the preliminary stages. Yeah. She slinks out of her dress and lets it fall to the floor. He's getting full access. Kelly pats down her hair and checks her reflection in the compact mirror in her purse. Her body near the door, she sees and hears someone slip a white piece of paper under the room's front door.

"Brandon?" calls Kelly.

He exits the bathroom in only his boxers, immediately walking over to kiss her fervently, a condom in his right hand.

"There's a message on the floor," says Kelly after the kiss.

His brow furrowed in concentration, Brandon leaves the condom on the nightstand and goes to read the message. His phone rings shortly afterwards. Brandon picks up the cordless.

"Hello?" says Brandon. "Yes...put him through."

Kelly motions for him to come to her, Brandon rejoining her on the blanket. Who could be calling him at this hour? She reads the alarm clock. Ten-thirty.

"Jesse," explains Brandon. "I asked him to call me and keep me posted."

Oh, good. They can hear how Andrea's doing while being together. Kelly hated leaving her in the hospital but Andrea was the one who told her to come out here. She mentally vows to visit Andrea everyday when she gets home. Then, she can share how amazing the trip was and Andrea could share in the joy. She deserves to know more than anyone. Kelly starts to massage Brandon's shoulders, Brandon grinning at her.

"Hey, Daddy Vasquez, what's shakin'?" says Brandon.

She feels Brandon's shoulders tense even before Brandon frowns. Brandon locks his gaze on the wall with a stoic expression. Kelly stops massaging him and tries to read his face.

"Is she there?" asks Brandon.

Is who there? No, is something wrong with Hannah? Did she take a turn for the worse? Kelly swallows a lump in her throat.

"Hey, Chief," greets Brandon.

Chief. That's Andrea. Is Andrea okay?

"Yeah, I know," says Brandon. "How many tests...well, being that she's your daughter, I'm certain she'll pass all of them...no, you're being a good mom...hang in there, alright? Yes...I'll be sure to tell Kelly. Call me if there's any news or if you need anything."

Brandon walks slowly to the table and sets the phone into the cradle. Kelly closes her eyes, preparing herself. Things have gotten bad since she left, obviously. Tears threaten to slide down her face.

"Hannah's not doing so hot," says Brandon, clearly hating the words as they fall from his lips.

Patting a spot on the bed, Kelly urges him to sit. She doesn't want either of them to be alone. Brandon lowers himself and puts his face in his hands.

"Jesse said there was nothing I could do but...," begins Brandon.

"They probably have to wait for the tests," says Kelly. "We'll call in the morning."

"If anything happens to Hannah...to...to Andrea...," says Brandon, biting his lip, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have left."

"Brandon," says Kelly.

She leads his head to her side, constantly stroking his arm. This is the negative of what's "unplanned." This may be a matter of life or death. Kelly scolds herself for not considering the whole picture, the truth of a surprise that you couldn't be ready for.


	7. Forget Me Nots

**VII. Forget Me Nots**

_Sending you forget me nots_  
_To help me to remember_  
_Baby please forget me not_  
_I want you to remember_

_Sending you forget me nots_  
_To help me to remember_  
_Baby please forget me not_  
_I want you to remember_

_Those were the times we had_  
_Sharing a joy that we thought would last_  
_Memories of love and affection_  
_Never really was just like a dream_  
_Was it the simple things_  
_That made me so crazy about you_  
_Was it your charm or your passion_  
_It's not hard to believe_  
_I love you and I need you so I _

_Did we give up too soon_  
_Maybe we needed just a little room_  
_Wondering how it all happened_  
_Maybe we just need a little time_  
_Though we did end as friends_  
_Given the chance we could love again_  
_She'll always love you forever_  
_It's not hard to believe_  
_I want you and I need you so I _

_Sending you forget me nots_  
_Baby please forgive me not_

_Good times we had_  
_They weren't so bad_  
_What a life we shared _  
_Pretty baby I still care_

**Forget Me Nots is the property of Patrice Rushen.**

**Fly Me To The Moon is the property of Frank Sinatra.**

"_The number you have dialed is not in service_," says an automated woman who clearly sounds like she doesn't care.

Dylan looks disgustedly down at his car phone, then repeatedly at the street corner. What is it going to take to get a hold of Kevin and Suzanne? They have to be settled in by now and you'd think Kevin would contact him about the conditions of the new work site. Maybe he should've gone himself. No, because then he would not be waiting for someone, the good kind of waiting, even if he has to park around the way from the Walsh residence.

He volunteered to drive Brenda wherever she needed to go for the day. Their number one stop would be to a picture studio to get her student travel card. Then, they'll buy some odds and ends Brenda hasn't picked up yet. He's not too concerned about a set schedule, and he could use a day free of concern, and whenever they were together they made the most out of any experience. From a weekend in Mexico to missing _Animal Crackers_, they had no trouble flying by the seat of their pants. Of course it would occasionally lead to drama but things are different. For the first time in a long time, things are going well for both of them. Dylan even had the semblance of a family with Erica and her parents. He's not the guy smashing flower pots anymore, not to mention that he hasn't had a drink for a decent amount of days. But that doesn't make the memory of Brenda comforting him after he stormed out of the hotel after they bailed on _Animal Crackers_ any fainter. Holding her fragile form in his arms, he clung to and cried on her shoulder since the tears had nowhere else to go. He honestly felt like he had no place else to go. Why did he make the hairs on his father's neck stand up? Why did they yell instead of talk? Dylan found that Brenda was the only person he could talk to about Jack and despite the drama that drew to him like metal to a magnet, she was what and has continued to be what he needed.

"Right on time," says Dylan, spying Brenda pass a stop sign through the lenses ol his sunglasses.

Dressed in a simple, white jersey dress under a light black jacket, Doc Martens on her feet, Brenda runs her fingers through her dark hair.

"Wearing the British footwear already," notes Dylan when Brenda reaches the car.

"Donna insisted I buy a pair," says Brenda. "She calls them the quintessential nineties shoes."

Dylan only knows the brand is popular because Kelly used to buy a couple pairs every six months, but he's not about to tell Brenda that, especially since that's all he knows about them anyway. Brenda sits in the passenger seat and buckles her seatbelt.

"How'd you ditch the parentals?" asks Dylan.

"Dad went to that early meeting, and Mom was playing with the VCR so we could record Brandon's TV appearance," replies Brenda. "It wasn't too hard to escape."

"Breaking out of the Walsh home...it ain't Alcatraz," kids Dylan.

They laugh, Dylan starting his car and pulling off in the opposite direction. They fly through familiar streets. Brenda smiles as the breeze blows against her face. Dylan catches glimpses of her hair whipping against her smooth cheeks. He always liked driving with her, Brenda shotgun and the top down. To think, if the European trip works out, they could travel by plane and train and double-decker bus. He could totally imagine them on the top of a two-story red bus sailing along the streets of London. Brenda was a picture person and Dylan would comply because he'd like some photographic evidence of their escapades too, though he'd have to give some copies to Erica or she'd never forgive him. Picture studio, thinks Dylan, making a left turn on Vine.

"Ah!" cries Brenda, the turn resulting in a moth leaping onto the front of her dress. "They always make driving with the top down sound glamorous and don't tell you about this."

Brenda chuckles, raising her hand to let the moth wander off when they reach a stop light. Dylan's sure that a lot of other girls would've been upset and insisted he raise the roof but not Brenda.

"Maybe he thought I was a carnation," says Brenda.

"Bug shield," says Dylan, playfully raising his hand to an area below her neck.

Gently batting his hand away, Brenda smiles at him. Dylan speeds ahead when the light goes green.

"That's why I wear shades, Bren," says Dylan.

"Give me your shades," poses Brenda.

"Yeah, that's not happening," says Dylan, Brenda squeezing his knee afterwards.

"The studio's on Vine, right?" asks Dylan.

"Yeah," says Brenda. "Dad says it's one of those old-timey ones. I wonder if they'll have those cameras with the light bulb on top."

"Who wants to look at a light bulb when they smile?" says Dylan, shrugging.

"Who doesn't?" challenges Brenda without much conviction.

Laughing, Dylan drives into a parking lot that houses a laundromat, barbershop, nail salon, and Capture the Rapture Studio. Brenda gapes at the name as Dylan lowers his sunglasses at the same time.

"What on...," begins Dylan.

"Earth?" finishes Brenda. "Who calls their studio that?"

"Your dad's friend, apparently," answers Dylan. "Oh well. Let's shake a leg."

Brenda and Dylan leave the car, Dylan locking it. He holds open the glass door of Capture the Rapture Studio for Brenda. They walk into shadows that materialize into a room once their eyes adjust to the lights. A large studio stretches from one black wall to another. To their left, a cash register sits on a desk, black and white and color copies of photos of former customers mounted on a board behind the register. Rows and rows of costumes on racks make up the middle of the room. The cameras are to the right, neatly confined spaces set aside for individual or group shots. Blaring lights sit above the areas where other people are being placed to pose. A young girl with braces twirls her baton and drops it as a camera's flash goes off. She pouts. The photographer asks her to do it again. Stomping off, she goes to complain to her mother.

"I don't wanna do this!" whines the girl.

"But you look so cute in the baton outfit," says her mother.

"You made me dress up!" cries the girl. "My face hurts from smiling."

"Poor girl," mumbles Dylan under his breath.

"Brenda!" calls a voice bouncing from halfway across the room.

A bald man with a goatee walks towards them. His paunch sticks out under purple pants, suspenders clutching the white tuxedo shirt over his chest. This is a guy whose face _should_ hurt from smiling.

"Jim's daughter," says the man, giving her an air kiss on both sides. "You've got Cindy's bone structure, though. Cindy's bone structure! Oh, you are a sight for sore eyes! A sight for sore eyes!"

He goes from smiling to talking to smiling to talking. Dylan exchanges a curious glance with Brenda, who keeps nodding politely.

"Is this your beau?" asks the man.

Dylan rubs his neck, not sure whether to answer or not. Luckily, Brenda is willing.

"Dylan McKay," introduces Brenda, noticeably steering away from labels. "Dylan, this is Archie Totterman, a friend of my dad's. He took some anniversary photos for my parents."

"They were delightful, and hey, it doesn't hurt that they were a good-looking couple," says Archie. "Of course, look who I'm talking to. You guys remind me of a young Burton and Taylor."

Though Archie's laying it on thick, Dylan has to admit he's got great taste in movie icons. Dylan lets his shoulders fall while Brenda speaks up.

"I need a student travel card for London," says Brenda.

"That should take two snaps," says Archie, with a snap of his finger. "These cards are golden. Europe loves when young people come to visit. There's all these discounts. Step this way, my little Elizabeth Taylor."

The baton girl has removed herself from the scene, crying into her mother's lap. Brenda replaces her on the black mark taped to the floor.

"X marks the spot," says Dylan, a few feet from the camera.

"I think I'll be seeing some spots when the flash goes off," says Brenda, straightening her jacket.

Archie begins fussing with the camera. Both Dylan and Brenda see a light bulb sitting firmly on the head of the contraption. They nod at each other knowingly. Archie ducks his head under a black cloth attached to the camera. He snaps a picture. A whiff of dust flies to the floor.

"Hey!" protests Brenda. "I wasn't ready."

"Oh, tosh," says Archie. "That was to get that pesky dust out. That's why it takes two snaps."

Gross, but whatever, thinks Dylan, nodding supportively at Brenda.

"Smile big, Bren," calls over Dylan.

"I'll tell her when to smile, thank you very much," says Archie from under the cloth, and then seconds later, "Smile, please!"

Brenda produces a warm, bright smile as the camera's flash falls across her face. Dylan can't help but grin as well. She will definitely rival any girls on the British campus in beauty and her brains would be unmatched. At least in his humble opinion. He'd bet a million bucks that this would be the first of many photos for her. Next comes headshots, and then shots on the red carpet, and then screenshots. Fresh-faced beauty, matinee star beauty, timeless beauty. Brenda could pull all of it off.

"Your card will be ready in a jiff," says Archie, removing the film.

"Thanks, Archie," says Brenda.

"Feel free to look around," offers Archie.

Shrugging, Dylan extends an arm, Brenda sliding hers through his. They pass the baton girl, now satisfied with a BlowPop, to reach the row of costumes.

"Doesn't this remind you of when we went to that big costume place?" says Brenda.

"Where we found Bonnie and Clyde?" says Dylan. "Oh, yeah. Right after you tried to put me in Robin Hood tights?"

"Steal from the rich, impress the ladies," teases Brenda, ruffling his hair.

He'll take that as a compliment. Brenda begins to sort through the various clothes on display, raising her head to view an assortment of wigs above the costumes.

"I like that the clothes came with pistols," recalls Dylan, turning slightly to see if a fake holster magically pops out to him in the pack.

When he turns back around, he's startled to take in the sight of a familiar face in a blonde wig. Brenda twirls the faux hair that hangs to her breasts. Dylan delivers a warm chuckle.

"Where have I seen this before?" asks Dylan, putting his forefinger against his lips.

"A Minnesota girl who had a mishap with blonde dye perhaps?" says Brenda. "Or do you just pick up random blonde surfer girls when you're riding to the beach on your motorcycle?"

"Depends on if I like their legs," replies Dylan.

"And?" says Brenda, lengthening hers for him to look at closely.

Dylan adorns a fedora sitting atop a spangled headband. He didn't enjoy dressing up, but Brenda constantly managed to yank out his showier tendencies. That, and fedoras are the coolest hats of the century.

"This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," mimics Dylan in a Godfather-like accent. "For you, babe, I'd buy you the biggest diamond in Jersey, so big you'd think that sparkler was a baseball. Capiche?"

"Like fer sure?" pipes up Brenda in a peppy surfer accent. "That'd be so radical. We could have the most tubular wedding...ever! Gnarly tunes, some boss waves, and boogie boarding. I'm so stoked!"

"Righteous!" wails Dylan, making the shaka sign.

They trade laughs, Dylan putting the fedora in its original spot as Brenda stares at him fondly.

"Picking out Bonnie and Clyde was fun," says Brenda. "We had a lot of fun in high school. "

Brenda's features fall into a frown. Before it got difficult is what she's probably adding in her mind, thinks Dylan. Doesn't she understand that he could change that if he could? He wouldn't have kissed Kelly or spent time alone with her or let his attraction to her steamroll over his common sense. All three of them wound up hurt because of his bad decision-making but his head is clearer than it ever was when it comes to the girl he wanted, wants.

"For every blonde I've dated...," starts Dylan.

He gently tugs the blonde wig off of Brenda.

"I'm glad I took a chance on a brunette," he finishes.

Beaming, Brenda hugs him to her, letting her ear lay lop-sided against his chest. There's no place he would rather have it be.

II.

An untouched croissant, a group of green grapes, and a couple sausages sit untouched on a plate. Two glasses of water are poured. Steam rises from a cup of coffee.

"You should eat something," says Kelly, smoothing her napkin.

Brandon lets his chin rest on his raised palms, elbows meeting the table. He can scarcely feel the steam or see the glossiness of the grapes. Not after that late-night chat with Andrea, thinks Brandon. The time change prevents him from ringing her early and she could probably use all the sleep she could get. Kelly talked him into coming down for breakfast and he hasn't eaten a morsel.

They dressed awkwardly last night. He let Kelly have the bed and strolled to the sofa, covering himself in a sheet and falling asleep and waking up for most of the night. He could think of nothing else except for that phone potentially rattling off its hook.

"If anything were wrong, we would've heard," says Kelly.

Unless the worst has happened, in which case Andrea would be too busy grieving. He knew Hannah was a preemie, that Jesse and Andrea were novice parents, that their family as a whole was under stress. He's spent the year forging a political career yet on the morning he's going to meet the president, all his thoughts have turned to a small baby thousands of miles away. He glances down at his suit.

"My tie's crooked," mumbles Brandon.

He walks briskly out of the restaurant and towards a mirrored panel in the lobby. Brandon plays with his tie, another reflection joining his shortly.

"Kel, this isn't how I imagined it," sighs Brandon. "The moment...the moment I saw my life changing."

"Change is good," says Kelly, winding her arms around his waist, kissing his back through his suit jacket.

"But I wanted all of my friends to be happy, too," says Brandon. "And my best friend isn't?"

Kelly leads Brandon to face her, the tie sliding from his clutch.

"I'm going to tell you something you should remember," says Kelly, putting a hand on his chest. "You aren't responsible for other people's happiness. You can help them find happiness but you can only be responsible for your own happiness. I couldn't make my mom sober or my dad visit...or convince myself that I was okay with my body."

"What's wrong with your body?" whispers Brandon.

She doesn't reply soon afterwards, though he can see that she's obviously touched by his statement.

"Nothing, and that took me forever to learn," says Kelly. "I still have days where I...anyway, you can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Brandon. It may seem like you should if you do become a politician but even then,_ those_ moments where you're doing something special, you have to enjoy before they're gone."

If anybody enjoyed the moment, Kelly Taylor did. Rather than whine about the dry task force excursions they had to go to, she made light of them. She got along with the students, including Josh Strickland, who Brandon himself couldn't stand. When Brandon outed his affair with Lucinda to Kelly, she simply hid an intrigued smile and didn't pry any further. Frankly, he's never had a girlfriend so easy-going. Girlfriend? He wasn't anticipating that term bobbing to the top of his brain. But why not? She's been his "fake girlfriend" at other events and they were very, very close last night. Why aren't they official?

"I have a question for you," says Brandon, after clearing his throat.

"Will it help you focus on something else?" says Kelly.

"Depends on the reply," says Brandon.

"I'm listening," says Kelly.

She consistently listens, another great quality he's witnessed since their fateful kiss in the woods, and just maybe, maybe, it was actually fate.

Brandon opens his lips to speak, though he's interrupted by a loud, French exclamation.

"Monsieur Walsh!"

"Excuse moi," says Brandon.

Jacques dangles a phone, twisting the chord until Brandon takes the receiver from him.

"Call from an Andrea," says Jacques with a wink. "Playing the field, I see."

"No, playing the field you don't see," says Brandon, annoyed.

He puts the phone to his ear. Brandon can already hear Jesse, and what he hears warms his heart.

"_The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout_," sings Jesse. "_Washed out the rain and_..."

"Shhh, Jesse," shushes Andrea.

"Andrea?" says Brandon.

"Brandon!" cries Andrea. "I'm glad I caught you! They ran the tests and...and they didn't find anything wrong with her lungs of her heart or..and Hannah's actually gained a bit of weight!"

He raises his eyes to the ceiling, relieved. Hannah had gotten the clean bill of health.

"That's wonderful, Chief," says Brandon, directing a thumbs up at Kelly.

Kelly claps her hands together and smiles broadly.

"She has to stay until she puts on more weight, but this is a start, Brandon," says Andrea. "The start of something, you know?"

"I know," says Brandon. "You're taking care of yourself too, I trust?"

"Jesse's making sure of that," replies Andrea.

"I most certainly am!" calls over Jesse. "_En espanol! El Itsy Bitsy Spider subio el chorro de agua..._"

"I'm thrilled for the two of you," says Brandon.

"We have to get off because we have to call Jesse's parents," says Andrea. "Hopefully, he'll stop memorizing Spanish children's songs long enough to talk to them..."

"Que?" says Jesse.

The two of them laugh, and Brandon says bye in the midst of it. Change is good, and this change in Hannah's condition is ever so good. Brandon hangs up the phone and rushes to hug Kelly. She embraces him at full speed, resulting in Brandon spinning her a couple times. After the third turn, he lets Kelly's heels touch the floor. Her eyes pierce through his as he regains his breath and he remembers what he originally set out to do.

"Would you like to be my girlfriend?" says Brandon.

"You don't mean separately...like girl and then friend?" says Kelly, her brow creasing.

"Why are you making this harder than it...," starts Brandon.

"Yes!" cries Kelly before Brandon gets the rest of the sentence out.

"You're cruel," says Brandon, drawing her to him for another hug.

"Mmmm," says Kelly, rubbing his back.

"My significant other?" poses Brandon as he lets go. "Or my partner? Steady? Sweetheart?"

"Mon cherie?" calls over Jacques.

"Stay out of this, Jacques," sighs Brandon.

Jacques grins, pretends to shoot one of his fingers, and blows on the finger after delivering a wink.

"Dinner tonight?" suggest Jacques.

"Maybe, but first?" says Brandon, grabbing Kelly's hand. "We're off to meet the President."

"Dinner tonight," says Jacques, writing down reservations anyway.

III.

"Salt, Nat!" insists Steve. "Saaaaaaaaaalt."

This is the request Brenda overhears as she enters the Peach Pit, student travel card now tucked into the small pouch wallet hanging under her jacket. Steve and Celeste are eating lunch at the counter, though Steve has stopped eating to beg. Celeste acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary as Steve grins devilishly at the condiments behind Nat.

"Oh boy," groans Nat as he wipes down the counter. "Oh boy."

"Come on," says Steve, rising slightly. "For my fries. Celeste would tell you if I had enough."

"You have enough," says Celeste, eating a fry without giving either of them eye contact.

"Too much salt is bad for you, Steverino," chastises Nat.

"Wha?" says Steve. "This is a conspiracy. No man should be denied extra salt."

"Ugh, you're wearing on me, so get back there and get it, you glum," sighs Nat.

"Aha!" cries Steve, ceremoniously ducking behind the counter.

Brenda puts a hand on Celeste's shoulder, mouths a silent "hey', and glares at Steve.

"Is Curly causing trouble, Nat?" asks Brenda.

Steve swishes his short blonde curls from side to side.

"Every day of my life," replies Nat.

"Salsa!" cries Steve with a smile directed at Brenda as he lifts the sauce.

"Hey Brenda, did you see Donna in the parking lot?" questions Nat, ignoring Steve. "She ordered a root beer float fifteen minutes ago and I haven't seen her since."

"No," replies Brenda. "Maybe she went to run an errand?"

She's certainly run some. After the picture studio, they went to the furniture store to fetch new luggage tags, to the office store for extra stamps and pens, to the CU campus for a letter Roy Randolph had left her, to the bookstore for any plays she didn't already have, and to the grocery store for bottled water. They finally agreed to take a lunch break to refuel.

"_Fly me to the moon_," sings Dylan, walking in with an armful of shopping bags.

Dylan had an additional accessory to go with the outfit he wore this morning, a fedora sliding over one of his eyes. The rest of the restaurant patrons appear enchanted, however, a group of college girls whispering among themselves. Dylan McKay, who becomes a ham when donning particular props.

Brenda settles onto a stool and smiles at Celeste.

"_Let me play among the stars_," says Dylan, gesturing to Brenda.

"I bought that for him," explains Brenda, indicating the hat.

Winding his arms around her, Dylan rocks Brenda from side to side. "_Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars."_

"_In other words_," sings Steve into a salt shaker, spinning to Dylan. "_Please be true._"

Steve extends his hand. Dylan takes it.

"_In other words, I love you_," says Steve.

"Yeah, I don't love you that much, Steve," says Dylan, promptly stopping the song.

They receive a round of applause anyway, Nate shaking his head in jest. Brenda would give them an A for entertainment, and a D for commitment. Either way, she'll take the guy with the bags.

"What happened to the mopey McKay I left not too long ago?" asks Nat, tipping the fedora further.

"I've had a change of heart, or headgear," replies Dylan.

"New hat, new him," says Brenda.

"Can we get two slices of pizza?" says Dylan. "Double pepperoni for me, and double cheese with..."

"A little sprinkle of peppers for me," interjects Brenda.

"I told her we were out of peppers, Nat," defends Dylan, throwing up his hands.

"And I told him I was going to ask anyway," says Brenda with a determined nod. "Because when I ask, it always comes out nicer."

"Indeed, it does," say Nat, writing on his notepad. "I may have received some peppers this morning as a matter of fact."

"Bring this woman some peppers, Nat!" says Dylan, jokingly proving her point and banging on the counter.

"A better idea? Get your butt up and get 'em yourself," replies Nat.

Celeste and Brenda do a high-five as Dylan salutes Nat. He puts the bags on the floor next to Brenda.

"Yes, sir," says Dylan, planting his fedora in the bag nearest Brenda.

Dylan disappears into the back closet. While he's there, Brenda contemplates what Nat could've possibly meant. She supposes any person would be moody if the sister they recently discovered moved away or maybe Dylan was having some business trouble. She's very appreciative of the moments where they have discussed their feelings but she would be more than happy if Dylan became a totally open book and told her everything he was worried about. Well, it can be their lunch conversation.

"I have to tell you the Gladiator Steve story," remarks Celeste, tapping Brenda's elbow.

"Ohhhh, the story," says Steve pleasantly.

Unforunately, Celeste doesn't get the chance. The door of the Peach Pit opens and Brenda can feel the temperature of her blood drop from normal to chilly in a split second. Jim Walsh walks to the counter, waving to Nat on the way. Brenda does her best to stay composed. She pats her hair, fools with her earrings. Both failed attempts, yet they aren't as colorful as her blushing face.

"Nat, a tuna melt?" orders Jim.

"Sure thing, buddy," says Nat.

Ugh. Why did she suggest the Peach Pit? Her father loves the Pit as much as her friends do, and there was every chance that they'd run into him here. She was just so caught up with Dylan that the rational part of her ruled the likelihood of running into Jim Walsh unlikely. There's no shrubs to push Dylan into this time.

"Brenda!" greets Jim. "Did you get the card?"

"Uh, hi, and...and yeah," stammers Brenda. "Aren't you eating lunch late?"

"Oh, that early meeting I had freed up my afternoon," explains Jim. "Was Archie good to you?"

"Extremely," says Brenda. "I thought Mom was trying to get you on a low-fat diet. Maybe you should get a garden salad...somewhere else."

In the far corner of her sight, Brenda spies Dylan undoing a jar of green peppers, nearing the main area of the Peach Pit. No. Done in by her own request for green peppers. She could live without those stupid green peppers. Brenda hops off the stool, accidentally knocking her bag to the ground. As if in slow-mo, the fedora falls on the floor and slides to a nearby booth. Jim is quick to retrieve it. He examines the hat. Brenda swallows a lump in her throat.

"Hey, Bren!" calls Dylan, his body becoming visible. "This is hard to..."

With a flustered expression, a tight grip on the hat, a scowl following both, Jim Walsh stares at Dylan. Dylan meets his gaze without moving a muscle. Nat's patrons are seemingly oblivious to the showdown, except for Steve, whose mouth is covered by Celeste. Boy does she wish she was one of those carefree customers.

"Brenda, outside," says Jim calmly.

Very calmly, notes Brenda, lowering herself from the stool. She glances guiltily at Dylan and exits the Peach Pit after her father. Stopping in the center of the parking lot, Jim turns to look at his daughter directly.

"Know what I thought when I saw this and then him?" says Jim with a smirk. "Bonnie and Clyde, reunited."

"Don't joke about that, Dad!" cries Brenda.

"You even considering this boy again is a joke!" exclaims Jim. "Or have you been secretly traipsing around town with him for kicks?"

"What we do is none of your business!" says Brenda.

Their voices are so loud that she almost doesn't hear the groan of a door opening and closing.

"I'm making it my business!" says Jim. "Get your things. We're going home."

"Or what?" says Brenda.

"Or I'll get you on the first flight to London so fast your head will spin!" replies Jim. "You should be focusing on school, not hanging out with a lazy lothario who's just going to break your heart again..."

"I won't!" interrupts the person who came out of the door.

Brenda breathes in and out, watching Dylan move to them and stand beside her. This is what she was hoping to avoid. She wanted to avoid lighting the fuse. Now it's all blown up in a matter of minutes.

"This lothario is going to London...with your daughter!" yells Dylan.

No, this isn't how she planning to reveal that information, another plan going up in smoke. Brenda lifts a hand to her pounding forehead.

"Over my dead body you will!" shouts Jim, storming towards Dylan.

"Guys!" says Brenda, manuevering herself between them.

A huffing Jim stands on one side of her and a hot Dylan stands on the other. Brenda's eyes mist as each of them backs away from her hands. Dylan and her father are great guys, better than this, but whenever they're in the same room, they start spitting venom at each other.

"Judge me all you want, Jim!" exclaims Dylan. "It won't change a thing. I'm gonna be around. Get used to it!"

"I'm not going to let you ruin my daughter's life!" says Jim.

"Well, you try to run it, which is worse!" yells Dylan. "You won't let her be happy! What kind of father are you?"

"A good one, and don't you forget it!" insists Jim, putting a finger in front of Dylan's nose.

"Guys!" repeats Brenda strongly.

She lowers her father's finger, glancing at them. They're just as riled up as they were when she originally dated Dylan, neither of them wavering, neither of them willing to let the other person have the final word. She can't deal with this animosity. She can't.

"Stop acting like this!" cries Brenda. "Both of you!"

Dylan takes it in stride while Jim is somewhat startled. Whenever she raises her voice to him, he has that same face. But she has to, before they kill one another.

"I love this woman," says Dylan, then repeating it louder. "I love this woman, Jim!"

"Bull," says Jim.

"And for you to dismiss that is bull!" continues Dylan. "You can't keep her on a leash anymore!"

"Last time I checked obeying your father is _not_ keeping someone on a leash," says Jim. "You constantly blow things out of proportion and that's why you consistently find yourself in hot water."

"Last time I checked you're the only person I'm in hot water with!" exclaims Dylan.

"Doubtful," waves off Jim.

"If your own daughter can forgive me, why can't you?" says Dylan, quietly seething.

"You don't want to know the answer to that!" says Jim.

"Yes, I want to know the answer to that!" yells Dylan. "Why can't you?"

"Enough!" says Jim loudly. "Brenda, tell that boy that you're not going to England with him."

"What?" breathes Brenda.

"Tell that boy...," begins Jim again.

"She heard you, Jim," insists Dylan. "The whole block can hear you!"

"I wasn't speaking to you!" shouts Jim.

"Stop it!" yells Brenda, her voice echoing off the exterior walls of the Peach Pit.

She sobs in the silence, the two men observing her body as she shakes. Brenda can barely get a breath. Dylan leans forward to touch her but she yanks away. She has to run, to relax.

"Look what you did!" exclaims Jim. "Sweetie, wait!"

"Brenda, I didn't mean...," starts Dylan.

Brenda jogs into the Pit. Her feet move past Celeste and Nat calling out for her, past stacked restaurant supplies, past a broom laying on the floor. She almost trips but stays erect. Brenda fumbles for the doorknob of the bathroom. Hearing other sobs, she carefully parts the door.

Donna lays there in a heap on the floor. So this is where Donna disappeared to. Her sobs, unlike Brenda's, are deeper, coming from her stomach. Brenda bends to her.

"Don, what's wrong?" whispers Brenda.

Sadly glancing at her friend, Donna sits up and hugs her knees.

"I found David last night...David and Ariel," chokes out Donna. "There was...there was a condom...on the floor..and..."

Donna is unable to finish. Brenda crouches to wind her arms around her. The sobbing is heart-breaking to her, yet it's quiet here and she can breathe so Brenda, without much thought, welcomes that part of it.

"How could he cheat on me?" moans Donna. "What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," whispers Brenda, kissing her forehead.

"But I still love him, Bren," sobs Donna. "God help me, I still love him. What am I going to do?"

She stares at Donna who closes her eyes, Brenda closing her own, letting those words sink into her farther than she would like.


	8. Out Here On My Own

**VIII. Out Here On My Own**

_Sometimes I wonder where I've been_

_Who I am, do I fit in?_

_Make believin' is hard alone_

_Out here on my own_

_We're always proving who we are_

_Always reaching for that rising star_

_To guide me far, and shine me home_

_Out here on my own_

_When I'm down and feelin' blue,_

_I close my eyes so I can be with you._

_Baby be strong for me, baby belong to me_

_Help me through, help me need you_

_Until the morning sun appears_

_Making light of all my fears,_

_I dry the tears I've never shown_

_Out here on my own_

_But when I'm down and feelin' blue_

_I close my eyes so I can be with you_

_Oh baby be strong for me, baby belong to me_

_Help me through, help me need_ _you._

_Sometimes I wonder where I've been,_

_Who I am, do I fit in._

_I may not win, but I can't be thrown,_

_Out here on my own._

_Out here on my own_.

**Out Here On My Own is the property of Irene Cara of _Fame_ fame. :)**

Journalists swarm the lawn adjoining the Rose Garden like bees collecting nectar. Don't mention this analogy to Kelly, jokes Brandon in his mind. Brandon and Kelly stand in the midst of the busy hive, workers prepping the area for the Task Force Iniative and the podium where the President will speak. Camera crews from WUSA, WJLA, WTTG, and PBS adjust their equipment. Reporters with press passes proclaiming their newspapers (_the Washington Post_, _USA Today_, _New York Chronicle_) have entered the fray. It's quite a difference from their first trip to the Garden where everything was peaceful and they were in the company of Girl Scouts and tourists. Brandon walks across the grass, Kelly's hand in his. That's the single gesture responsible for his peace of mind.

Kelly wears a long, white dress covered in blue and green flowers that frames her body incredibly, her hair wavy past her shoulders. She could challenge any Congressman's wife or diplomat's daughter in the looks department. Brandon counted himself lucky. He doesn't look too bad either. He wore his best black suit, mainly because his mother thought it would make him stand out on TV more. They're probably eagerly awaiting a TV moment that might not happen.

He's not so much excited that he could be on TV; he's more excited that he'll be inches away from the Commander-in-Chief, former governor of Arkansas, William Jefferson Clinton. If he gets the chance to call him Bill at any point in the day, he'll definitely take it. Nah, that's too unprofessional and his tongue might get tied before he can even talk. That kind of thing is reserved for the Chancellor, or maybe the Chancellor can't do that either.

His favorite balding, faculty member is sweeping danish crumbs off a dark blue jacket, as his daughter dons some designer sunglasses. Brandon is surprised Clare came at all. He figured she'd find the whole thing dull and get into other metro-based mischief. He almost laughs to himself when he pictures the Chancellor and Clare as an L.A. version of Bill and Chelsea Clinton, complete with the father's similar love of fatty food and the daughter detesting parts of political activities. But he'd have a tough time imagining the Secret Service men taking down a runaway Clare. If she got into his hotel room easily, she'd be able to sneak in the White House after curfew without too much trouble.

Ugh, and here comes the more male, more nerdy version of trouble. Josh Strickland smooths his floppy brown hair and stuffs his hands into his khaki pants pockets. The _Condor _always has to send their most persistent, most annoying reporter with the Task Force. Maybe nobody else wanted the job, or maybe Josh has made it his mission to bug Brandon at every TA event.

Josh walks away from the refreshments table, his temporary press badge on prominent display. Brandon can feel Kelly's hand tense. Please let the pest pass us by, moans Brandon inwardly. No such mercy. Josh goes up to them in the middle of the lawn.

"Is this another fake date?" says Josh. "Or maybe Walsh promised you an autograph?"

"You and Socks must have a lot in common, cause you're equally catty," returns Kelly.

"That's obviously why he's here, Kel," says Brandon. "A playdate."

He chuckles, pulling out a notepad.

"So how much does Walsh actually pay you to be his temporary side dish?" continues Josh.

"We're official," says Kelly, raising their united hands. "That's the scoop. The genuine article."

"Though we shouldn't have to explain that to you," adds Brandon. "Could you use some coffee?"

"I could," answers Kelly.

"Excuse us," says Brandon, leading her towards the refreshments.

They breeze past the roving reporter to a table filled with coffee, tea, small muffins, danishes, bagels, and condiments. While the line is moving fast, the two of them take their time. Brandon's hoping that either Josh or Clare will leave. He stops short of a bagel when a hand touches his arm. An attractive red-haired lady, around nineteen, grins widely at him.

"Brandon," says the woman. "Brandon Walsh."

"That's the name...don't wear it out," greets Brandon.

"Pardon me if this is too forward, but you're a really, really good writer," praises the woman. "I graduated a year before you from West Bev, and I think I probably read every single one."

Brandon and Kelly exchange a smile, Kelly grinning proudly at him.

"I appreciate the compliment," says Brandon.

"What confuses me is why you're not writing now," continues the woman. "Particularly for the _Condor_. Task Force can't keep you that busy, can it?"

"You'd be surprised," says Brandon. "I'd be interested in writing for the paper, though, if there are open spots."

"Let's talk," says the woman.

He nods at Kelly to continue getting her refreshments, wandering with the woman to the shadow of a TV van. He enjoys the Task Force but he does miss the rush of a newsroom, the thrill of meeting a deadline. It's comparable to Brenda taking the stage. Journalism is in his blood.

"Mara," says the woman happily. "Mara Strickland."

No, no, no. This lovely woman cannot be related to weasel Josh Strickland.

"You're...Josh's sister?" says Brandon.

"Adopted," answers Mara.

Figures, though there's no way he'll say that. Great. Why does Josh have to ruin a perfectly good opportunity? On second thought? Yeah, he won't let him. The _Condor_ is a large organization and whose to say Josh will work on the same beat?

"Can you send me some writing samples I can show to the Editor-in-Chief?" asks Mara.

"Totally doable," assures Brandon. "I can include some recent pieces as well."

"Awesome!" exclaims Mara. "Talk to me after the program."

Well, that was painless. But what is Josh going to think when he finds out his own sister recruited Brandon for the paper? The expression on his face...Brandon grins. Yes, the expression on his face will be worth it. He spies someone who's enduring a far more stressful conversation. Clare is stirring a cup of tea, simultaneously bothering Kelly in the process. Brandon dodges a boom microphone on the path back to her.

"What other reason would you have to get coffee and mutiple cubes of sugar?" says Clare, smacking her lips. "You were up...all night. That and I saw you go into his room."

"Nice to know you're still keeping tabs on me," speaks up Brandon, positioning himself next to Kelly.

Clare pretends that's she not embarrassed. She lifts her teabag up and down in the cup.

"Okay, I'm so over you, Brandon," affirms Clare.

"Yeah...you're proving it right now," remarks Kelly.

"Why are you here?" sighs Brandon. "You hate this kind of stuff."

"I'm meeting my prep school friends," replies Clare. "We're driving to New York after this, if you're so curious."

"I'm not," says Brandon. "Stay out of my personal life."

"I could care less who you bag," says Clare, tossing the teabag centimeters away from Kelly's feet. "Ciao."

Kelly lets out a cry of frustration as Clare turns heel and goes to her seat.

"She is...," begins Kelly.

"I know," interjects Brandon. "Let's get to our seats. I promise you they're not in teabag-throwing distance."

"Good," says Kelly after a long breath.

They loop arms, manuevering past the eighty-plus people cordially invited to this special event. Brandon waves whenever he sees a Task Force member and not so surprisingly a few of them remember Kelly by name so she waves too. This must be the benefit of their "fake" relationship; his classmates bought it before they did. Was it so obvious to them? Brandon would be thrilled if it was, guesses it probably was as they sit down.

"The prez is a-comin'," kids Brandon, rifling through the program that sat on his chair.

"I was thinking...," begins Kelly, her voice fading.

"What?" encourages Brandon.

"I was thinking...Brandon Walsh, you've arrived," says Kelly as she squeezes his knee.

"No," says Brandon. "We both have."

II.

Mr. Pony is keeping vigil over Donna Martin. Searching for more pillows in the Walsh family linen closet, Brenda comes across a couple of clean blankets that Donna can use while she clings to Brenda's stuffed childhood horse. At the moment, she wishes she didn't have a hold of other childhood memories: riding on her father's shoulders in various amusement parks; watching Jim wolf down her first attempt at an upside down pineapple cake; spending time on personal birthday cards she made out of cardboard paper, glitter, and paste-on letters. She'd love to forget these memories mainly because any mention of the name that starts with "D" sends Jim into unreasonable, attack mode. The parking lot quarrel reached its peak in record time, a recent reminder that the two of them couldn't go two seconds without verbal sparring. She's just lucky it didn't come to blows. Well, she's certainly more lucky than Donna, a pronounced sob filling the hallway. The pony has reached its maximum potential; the wounds of the heart call for a little more.

Brenda presses the blankets against her breasts, closing her bedroom door behind her. Donna is spread out on Brenda's bed with an empty tub of strawberry ice cream between her legs.

"How could I not have seen the signs?" sighs Donna. "Ariel was always around him. I let it happen."

"You absolutely did not," insists Brenda, brushing Donna's blonde hair behind her neck.

"Brenda, if I just slept with him, maybe he wouldn't have...," begins Donna.

"He said he respected your decision," interrupts Brenda. "You shouldn't regret sticking to it. Don't let him make you feel any less than the beautiful person you are."

Smiling and lifting her head up from the ice cream, Donna nods knowingly. Brenda returns the smile.

"Thanks, Bren," says Donna. "What am I going to do without you?"

"Take more trips to Baskin Robbins?" says Brenda.

"I do feel like I'm going to have an ice cream baby," laughs Donna. "But you have the best refrigerator to raid. It's been that way since high school."

"I can't argue there," says Brenda.

"Isn't Brandon's thing like minutes away?" questions Donna.

Yes, Brandon's political engagement with the task force is five minutes from filling every TV screen in America. That's if they can spot Brandon at all. Cindy is convinced the cameras won't miss "her baby" and Jim put the tape in yesterday so they could record it. To sit on a couch with her father would be too kind, especially after the stunt he pulled. When she was on her way home with him, it was straight silent treatment. She perfected the silent treatment better than Brandon, who was just too jovial for his own good. Jim despised the treatment. He liked knowing what was in her head and double that if it had to do with Dylan. She could sit on the other side of the couch with Cindy, although things might be awkward anyway if her father had shared what went on at the Peach Pit. She'll brave the situation...for Brandon.

"Extra blankets," says Brenda, setting the sheets aside.

"This will be our last sleepover," notes Donna sadly. "And unlike David, you don't snore...or sleep around."

"I am very choosy about who I share my bed with," kids Brenda, throwing a pillow Donna's way.

Donna chuckles and catches it before it hits her in the face.

"Can I feed your fish?" asks Donna sweetly.

Observing her gift from Dylan blowing bubbles, Brenda blows a kiss to Blanche the fish.

"Blanche, she has your mother's blessing," says Brenda.

"Yay," says Donna.

"You sure you don't want to come down?" asks Brenda. "Maybe Clinton will split his pants or something."

"No, I'm fine here," says Donna. "Have fun."

Fun is the operative word. Brenda leaves the room, stalling to close the linen closet door, turn off the hallway light, and check the temperature on the thermostat. Procrastination City...population, 1. She stops in her tracks when her mother's voice carries to her.

"Brenda, your brother's almost on!" calls Cindy.

She enters the living room with exaggerated energy. Jim gives her a quick glance, then narrows in on the screen as if he's watching a college basketball championship. This must be his version of the silent treatment. Well, Brenda Walsh doesn't break that easily.

"I bet he shakes the president's hand," gushes Cindy, then repeating it giddily. "I bet he shakes the president's hand!"

Onscreen, Brenda views a podium with the presidential seal, dozens of rows of chairs filled with diplomats and senators, Secret Service men chatting among themselves in the corners, and Capitol policemen greeting the green ankle-length dress-clad First Lady. No sign of Brandon.

"Hilary is so composed," compliments Cindy.

"The task force should be coming through any minute now," says Jim.

The first few heads stream in, only the upper parts of bodies visible. Several attendees are clearly college students though Brandon has yet to be revealed. And basically we're going to have to sit through the speech before we get to him, realizes Brenda. A large round of applause accompanies the sudden arrival of the President. A rousing march plays loudly as he takes to the podium, his white hair glinting in the sun.

"I love his accent," says Cindy.

"Southern accents are pretty hard to do," says Brenda. "Roy really got on me about the 'r's."

Her parents give her short glances. Hmmm, considering the rumors that spread about her and Roy, maybe not the best choice of words. The President has no problem with his words. He directs his address to young Americans, specifically those who work for change and become involved with politics. There's no debate that this is right up Brandon's alley. Clinton is charming, just not charming enough to hold all of her attention. Brenda scans the crowd as he goes on about the virtues of their forefathers. She can't be certain but...are those locks of blonde hair vaguely familiar? The camera swerves left. Brenda's jaw drops.

"Brandon!" cries Cindy, her son sitting straight up in his black suit. "I knew that black would be his TV color. And...wait, is that..."

"Brandon..._and_ Kelly?" cry Jim and Cindy together.

"Hmmm," says Brenda, tapping her smiling lips. "I always wondered..."

"Are we sure that's Kelly?" questions Jim.

The three of them lean in, until their legs are hitting the coffee table.

"She's only been coming around for four years, guys," says Brenda, chuckling.

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," breathes Jim. "Cindy, did you..."

"Nope," assures Cindy. "He didn't tell me anything. I thought he was focusing on his academics."

"Mom, that line is so...Brandon," says Brenda.

Jim grins. "I'd have to agree."

Cindy's cheeks flush red, and without warning, the three of them break into laughter. Brenda grips the armrests of her chair and has to admit that she's less upset than when she came down. First of all, this meant Kelly was pretty much over Dylan, most likely. Secondly, she senses this may be a good relationship for both of them. Kelly needed a good guy and Brandon could loosen up now and then. The two of them appear to be happy, at least on TV. They're holding hands and everything. Naturally affectionate, excited expressions, fully realized smiles. They remind her of...her first Beverly Hills relationship. It was also her first mature relationship, now unravelling because of immature actions.

"President Clinton's going to Brandon...oh, oh!" exclaims Cindy, grabbing Jim's arm.

Clinton is indeed exchanging greetings with the young Task Force members, shaking their hands with a firm grip. He stands in front of Brandon and extends his hand. There it is, the handshake that the Walshes were waiting for. Brandon's smile is a million watts brighter than a regular light bulb. All of his family members scream.

"This is like when Clinton met Kennedy," says Jim decidely.

"I can't believe my baby boy was this close to the President," says Cindy with teary eyes.

"We're going to be like this when Brenda gets her first Oscar," affirms Jim without delay.

Brenda stares at her father instead of the TV screen, not sure if he really said that or why he did. Did he have those huge dreams for her? Did he truly mean it? She smiles softly at her father. The silent treatment seems pretty cruel in hindsight. The doorbell rings, robbing her of the opportunity to probe her father's feelings further.

This better not be David. She and Donna are definitely not in the mood. Brenda peers through the peephole, viewing an ex-boyfriend she wasn't anticipating. Dylan unbuttons his jacket until Brenda opens the door. He immediately smiles.

"This isn't a good time," whispers Brenda.

She would like if it was, but it isn't. Her father would flip.

"He's in there," guesses Dylan.

"Yes, and he'd toss you out into the streets if you came in," says Brenda.

"I'd like to see him lift me," mutters Dylan.

She frowns deeply at him.

"Sorry," says Dylan, holding his hands up in surrender. "I shouldn't have said that. Wanna go for a walk?"

"I can't," whispers Brenda. "He'd figure it out. Besides, Donna's upstairs and I have to be there for her."

"Why?" asks Dylan.

"David cheated," explains Brenda. "It's bad. Plus I'm sort of mad at you."

"For what?" says Dylan, louder than he intended, then saying it quietly. "For what?"

"World War three at the Peach Pit," says Brenda. "What do you think?"

"You don't want me to stand up for us being together?" asks Dylan.

"Yes, I do...if it doesn't lead to an explosion,' says Brenda.

"He started the rumble," says Dylan defensively.

"Dylan, don't," sighs Brenda. "I'm sick of this back and forth."

"So you don't want me to come around anymore?" says Dylan. "I mean, God, Bren, what do you want?"

"No," says Brenda. "I mean, you can come over..."

"I can come in, then," remarks Dylan.

"No," says Brenda, blocking him as he attempts to enter. "It's confusing, Dylan. Stop making things difficult."

"I will," says Dylan, managing to side-step her. "Right here, right now."

Brenda's not entirely sure how she goes from eye contact with him to her staring at his backside, but it's happening. It's happening as sure as she is breathing. She rushes to follow Dylan as he waltzes through the foyer. Cindy is rewinding the VCR tape while Jim jumps to his feet.

"What are you doing in my house?" shouts Jim.

"You're getting this all wrong, Jim," says Dylan, smirking. "You're supposed to ask me to sit down, ask what my intentions are..."

"I intend to kick you out on your keister!" interrupts Jim. "You've got some nerve!"

"Let's see how much nerve I have!" returns Dylan.

"Dylan!" exclaims Brenda.

"Honestly, boys!" cries Cindy, crossing his arms. "This is way out of hand."

"We were having a nice family moment, and in comes Hurricane McKay to mess things up," says Jim, loudly. "It never fails. That's why I don't want him anywhere around here."

"Cause we don't have problems when Dylan's gone," says Brenda, rolling her eyes.

"Most of our problems involve him," says Jim. "He's a curse to you, Brenda, to us, and to himself."

Brenda notices Dylan's features fall with her father's last statement. The nerve is retreating behind his eyes as his shoulders start to shrink. She shakes her head continually. It's like her heart is hiccuping as she searches for something to say, something to do. Dylan's brown gaze is on her until she silently looks at him.

"Fine!" shouts Dylan. "I'm sorry for being the bane of your existence, alright?"

"If you're really sorry, get out of my house!" yells Jim.

Dylan turns roughly away from him, pausing beside Brenda.

"Come with me," says Dylan to her.

"She's not leaving this house with...," starts Jim.

"Jim, shhhh," interjects Cindy.

He waits for her answer. All she has to say is yes, but she can't leave. She can't leave because she can't break her loyalty to Donna or to her family or to her own conscience.

"I can't," whispers Brenda.

Dylan's brow creases in confusion, his cheeks sunk in sadness, as he trudges towards the door, the imprint of his sullen face caged in Brenda's brain. She should've defended him. She should've been there for him. The slammed door thunders as loud as a bullet leaving a gun.

"You did the right thing," says Jim.

Jim goes to the VCR, ejecting the tape.

"While you're busy saying the wrong things?" says Brenda.

He puts the tape into a box without replying to her. Cindy exits the living room with her head down.

"Never mind that he's eighteen, never mind that he's alone," continues Brenda. "If you judge him like that when he has nothing, I'd hate to know how you judge me."

"It's simple," says Jim. "I don't."

"Could've fooled me," moans Brenda.

Brenda resolutely turns the TV off with the remote, ignores her father's sympathetic stare, and walks out onto the porch. She swears she can almost hear the squeal of Dylan's wheels sounding from far away. But it may only be the wind.

III.

Dylan stalls in his driveway, his feet alternately covering patches of light and shadow. He's been in and out for the whole day, stopping here, stopping there. How come it's only now that he's not moving? He goes inside, puts his body against the door. He's unable to stand anymore. With every fiber of his being, he hates the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes, the hard lump lodged in his throat. He freezes as he takes in the weight of his failure to be calm.

He tells himself time and time again that this will be the day he won't let Jim burrow under his skin. This will be the turning point, when they lower their weapons, when he'll say the exact, perfect, hard thing and Brenda won't have to worry. Then, the ugly past returns. Then, his temper flares. Then, he's out of another door and walking home with guilt. Maybe he _is_ like his father. A screw-up who'll die a lonely man.

He was more, muses Dylan. Jack was more than that, even if you found that out too late. Why is everything too late in his life? He thought life was about repair and redemption; this is what he reaches for every day. Why can't he be a work-in-progress and not catch flack for it? Jim used to like him or is he mistaken? Perhaps Jim thinks you can only be a work-in-progress once and then the deal's off?

The couch is inviting, Dylan crawling onto the cushions sluggishly. What if he talks to Cindy? There's no tension with her, though at this point, Brenda seems at odds with the situation so why bother her mother? There's way too many questions in his head. He couldn't remove them if he tried. Stretching, Dylan hears the phone ring. It rings repeatedly and he forgot to turn on his answering machine. Just as well. He might never get up if he didn't have something to do.

"Hello?" says Dylan, setting the phone against his ear.

"Dylan!" cries Erica with a shaky voice. "Oh, Dylan...I don't know where we're going...and..."

"Wait, Er," says Dylan. "Slow down. What's going on?"

"I...I think it's Mexico!" cries Erica. "I think that's it. I'm scared...I'm so scared!"

Sweat instantly forms on the nape of Dylan's neck, her panicked cries reverberating in his ear. Mexico? Why are they taking her to Mexico? They didn't mention Mexico to him. He has to be calm this time around. Erica's rattled and she needs that from him.

"Where are Kevin and Suzanne?" asks Dylan with a soothing tone.

"Checking...checking baggage," replies Erica tearfully. "Kevin...yells at me. He yells at me a lot, Dylan."

"Are you still at LAX?" says Dylan.

"No, another airport," says Erica. "No...no, they're coming! Dylan, I..."

"Who are you talking to?" snaps a familiar voice in a growl Dylan hasn't heard before.

"You said you were using the bathroom!" cries Suzanne on the other end.

"Let go of me...let go of me!" shouts Erica.

That's it. Calmness...out the window. Screw it.

"Kevin, if you touch a hair on my sister's head, I'll break you!" yells Dylan, his voice echoing throughout his living room. "Kevin!"

"Stop hurting me!" begs Erica. "Dylan!"

"I'm going to kill you if you do anything to her!" yells Dylan. "Kevin!"

"Your sister was being a drama queen!" shouts Kevin over Erica's persistent cries. "She had no reason to call you. I'll contact you when we've landed."

"Tell me where you are...right now!" commands Dylan.

"Why?" says Kevin. "You know."

A dial tone sounds on the other end. His ears might as well be bleeding. Dylan hurriedly grabs his car keys, rushes to his car without locking the front door, and speeds towards the station. Is this the same Kevin who was gentle to his wife and stepdaughter moments before they left? Is Suzanne going along with this troll? Why didn't he stop them? He should've figured something was tricky. Even Jim could see it. He'll throttle Kevin, the snake in stepfather clothing. Dylan pulls into a parking space and jogs to the gleaming glass door, throwing it open.

"Who runs this station?" shouts Dylan. "I need a cop now!"

Police officers pause at the copiers, their computers, and at the multiple doors leading to different compartments. Each of them appear flummoxed for a minute, until a guy with curly, brown hair and a cheap Hawaiian shirt answers him. He strolls to where Dylan is standing.

"This ain't McDonald's," says the man. "I mean, you can't bark out orders at people."

"My sister's missing and I've gotta find her, man!" says Dylan.

"Maybe she's out with her boyfriend," says the man, shrugging. "It happens."

"Lemme talk to a real cop!" shouts Dylan, pushing the man until he falls over his desk.

The man shoots up and is held back by two cops. Dylan's chest heaves up and down until the man walks off with disgust.

"How long has the girl been missing?" asks the cop to his left.

"They left two days ago," replies Dylan.

"They?" says the cop to his right.

"She left with her mother and stepdad," confesses Dylan with a sigh.

The cops trade unenthusiastic glances.

"They're crooked...apparently," goes on Dylan, still trying to register the disturbing call. "It sounded like...child abuse."

"Have you see them abuse her?" says the first cop. "Cause that's a huge accusation."

"No, but...," begins Dylan.

"This dude's off his rocker," says the Hawaiian shirt man.

"Look, shut up, Hawaiian Punch, or I'll punch you!" yells Dylan, going for him again.

Two other cops restrain Dylan, the tallest wearing a nametag that digs into Dylan's shoulder as he resists. He grows weary as the Hawaiian shirt man takes a seat by the watercooler. None of the other cops show any interest. Isn't this their job? He's not foaming at the mouth. Erica wouldn't exaggerate her fear. That's not like her.

"You're Jack McKay's boy," says the Hawaiian shirt man, retrieving a small paper cup.

"The one and only," says Dylan, struggling again.

"Can't stand these trust fund kids," says the Hawaiian shirt man to a nearby cop. "They're practically raised with diamond-covered diapers and golden pacifiers."

"Are you aware that I'm right across from you?" exclaims Dylan.

"Why?" says the Hawaiian shirt man. "Did you miss a word?"

Dylan manages to free himself, heading straight for him, until he stops in his tracks. He has to cooperate, at least a little. Erica could be on a plane to anywhere at this very second and he's wasting time fighting. For all those instances where he could've done things better, this is possibly the most important. He drops his arms to his sides.

"Please," says Dylan softly. "She's practically the only family I've got."

The Hawaiian shirt man fills his cup, drinks it slowly, watching Dylan every second.

"You can take it up with the courts...," begins the cop standing by him.

"I can't wait that long...come on," sighs Dylan.

The Hawaiian shirt man swallows. "Run the stepfather's name through the system."

"Are you for real?" says the cop by Dylan.

"Like seaweed," says the Hawaiian shirt man. "Run it."

Whoa, he was hoping that somebody would listen, but he didn't think it would be the guy he nearly clobbered.

"Give them a name, kid," says the Hawaiian shirt man.

"Kevin," provides Dylan. "Kevin Weaver."

The cop takes his hands off Dylan, entering the name into the database. Dylan gives the Hawaiian shirt man a thankful nod that he returns.

"Huh, this Kevin Weaver has numerous aliases," says the cop. "Think he's the one?"

"I'd bet on it," says the Hawaiian shirt man. "Sounds like an investigation to me."

The Hawaiian shirt man pulls out a chair for Dylan. Dylan wordlessly takes the seat, stares ahead as the Hawaiian shirt man joins his friend at the computer.

"By the way," says the Hawaiian shirt man. "I'm Jonesy."

"Dylan," offers Dylan.

"Yeah," says Jonesy. "No duh."

IV.

"God Bless America!"

The final sentiment earns the president a standing ovation. In the trenches, Kelly is surrounded by applauding audience members, mechanical equipment, mini tape recorders, and a beaming boyfriend growing misty-eyed as the national anthem plays over the speakers. This might as well be the climax of a movie, complete with the two sweethearts, thinks Kelly, throwing warm glances Brandon's way. Their Washington D.C. weekend is officially one for the books.

"You can tell your mom Clinton doesn't have baby soft hands," says Kelly as the clapping dies down.

"I don't believe good skin care is a requirement for those who make it to the Oval Office," says Brandon.

They stand, the crowd departing the area as they gather in miniature groups.

"Just wait until a woman's running the show," argues Kelly. "Females are always held to higher standards when it comes to appearance."

"Sad, but true," says Brandon. "That will be my first amendment. Everybody come to Senate meetings in pajamas."

"And you have to wear bunny slippers so they'll know who's in charge," adds Kelly.

"But of course," concedes Brandon. "I'm going to chat with Mara for a bit and I'll be yours for the rest of the day.'

"Then I better put on more lipstick," says Kelly.

"In addition to the pajamas," kids Brandon.

"They'll both be off before the night is through," whispers Kelly, gripping Brandon's waist.

"Hail to the briefs," says Brandon, kissing her cheek. "Going."

Kelly laughs, locating the restroom at the rear of the Garden. Task Force students and faculty members have congregated there, seeing as they'd be leaving in twenty minutes and they had to clear the path for the President to go to his limo. She notes that Brandon has found Mara, and also Josh unfortunately, who she can sense is peeved. She enters the bathroom. It's far fancier than the hotel bathrooms. The toilets are white with clean, gold lids, the sinks sharing the same color scheme. Little bars of soap are held by gold-plated dishes. The soap dispensers give off a scent of vanilla. This must be where the dignitaries go to do their business. Heh, she could be using a sink Queen Elizabeth used. Kelly grins as she takes out a red tube of lipstick.

"What's that smell?" says a clear voice as a group of four girls enter.

Clare walks behind Kelly, the girls giggling together.

"Smells like...skank," says a girl with dirty blonde hair and earrings shaped like four-leaf clovers.

Not letting her fingers waver, Kelly applies her lipstick to her top lip.

"Sabrina, you're being mean," sighs Clare, fixing her hair in the mirror. "Somebody's only a skank if they can't keep their legs closed."

"We know anybody like that, girls?" says Sabrina, shaking her clovers.

Another round of giggles pervade the room. Kelly lifts her eyes skyward. Sabrina nudges Kelly's elbow and gasps when the tube of lipstick clatters to the counter. The "accident" leaves a red mark on Kelly's chin.

"Oopsie daisies," says Sabrina. "Accident. I swear."

"It's not classy to lie," says Kelly pointedly. "Isn't that right, Clare?"

Clare glances guiltily at the fallen tube of lipstick. The little brat is at a loss of what to say for once. Miracle.

"Come on, guys," says Clare. "This is boring. Let's go."

Thank goodness. Kelly ducks into a stall, fetching a decent amount of paper to get the lipstick off her face. That's when she hears another set of laughs, although this bunch is a bit shorter. They almost seem hesitant. Kelly thinks she also hears the sink being turned on, until she leaves the stall and determines the real source of the noise. That's what the creaking was - writing. Four red letters on the mirror stare back at her, carefully written with her own lipstick. S-L-U-T. The term is not alien to her but she hasn't felt the lash of it since high school. She spent her entire school career running from this term, this term of tactless maliciousness. Kelly's mouth clamps shut, lips half covered, half naked. Her cheeks show a trail of tears rolling to her marked chin.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" says Sabrina innocently. "Mirrors do show everything."

"I...," croaks out Kelly, letting her gaze descend to the floor.

"You...you went too far," whispers Clare to Sabrina.

"I get protective when it comes to my friends," mutters Sabrina to her. "Besides, she'd say something if it wasn't true. Or she'd at least scrub it off."

This horrible high schooler, this terrible teenager, this...this witch! Kelly throws the bunched toilet paper, balled in her fists as she couldn't breathe, at Sabrina's legs.

"Stop throwing stuff, whore!" yells Sabrina.

"I am not a whore!" screams Kelly.

The bathroom door screeches open, Clare's friends huddling as a boy walks through the door. Clare does her best to hide behind Sabrina.

"Hey!" says Brandon. "What's going on?"

Kelly sobs, covering her face, ashamed. So ashamed.

"Was that you yelling, Kel?" asks Brandon.

"Nobody was yelling," lies Sabrina.

"Kel?" whispers Brandon, glancing at each of the girls, his gaze finding the mirror.

"You can't be in here," points out Sabrina. "Hello? Girls restroom?"

Brandon brushes past Sabrina, turning on every sink until they're rushing, until he stops them and there's a pool of water in the center sink.

"Who wrote this?" demands Brandon.

None of Clare's friends make a sound. Kelly sniffles, the single sound in the small space.

"Clare?" says Brandon.

"I...I didn't," speaks up Clare. "But...I didn't stop it either."

"Who did it then?" says Brandon.

The silence continues. As much as she tries, Kelly can't stop herself from looking into the glass, from seeing her face in the L, her shoulders in the U. This was supposed the best day of their trip, not the worst.

"What?" exclaims Brandon. "You're not man enough to cough up to what you did?"

"I am," says Sabrina, going to Brandon. "Woman enough. And I'm not afraid to call a slut a slut. She gives Marilyn Monroe a run for her money."

Brandon rips a couple paper towels from the holder, dipping them in the pool of water. He holds them towards Sabrina.

"Wash it off," commands Brandon.

"I don't have to do anything," says Sabrina.

Glaring at her, Brandon soaks the paper towels, systematically wiping off the word, Kelly shaking as she watches him. Clare retrieves the lipstick, throwing it in the trash. Sabrina screeches when Brandon places the wet paper towels into her hand.

"I'm not sure what's worse," says Brandon. "Your mouth or your maturity level."

"I...I didn't plan for this to happen, Brandon," says Clare weakly.

"Keep better company and I might believe you," says Brandon.

He starts to guide Kelly out of the bathroom. From the corner of her eye, Kelly can still spot the traces of the lipstick, the smear on the glass. That word will continue to haunt her forever, won't it? No matter who she's with, no matter how happy she is.

"This is disgusting!" moans Sabrina, watching wet, red residue slide across her arms.

"Not as disgusting as what you wrote," says Brandon as they leave. "Wash _that_ off."


	9. Reminisce

**IX. Reminisce**

_I, I, I, I, I, oh, I can remember when_  
_We had it all_  
_You and I_  
_Yeah_

_Let's make the time tonight_  
_The feelin' is oh so right_  
_Reminisce on the love we had_  
_Make the time tonight_

_Let's make the time tonight_  
_The feelin' is oh so right_  
_Reminisce on the love we had_  
_Make the time tonight_

_I know that we've been here before_  
_The candle light and you walking softly through my door_  
_Come on in my sweet, how have you been?_  
_You're so nice but tonight, we're gonna be more than just friends_

_I recall the days and ways of love we made_  
_I still feel the heat when we shared each other_  
_Don't you feel the magic? The mystery's in the air_  
_Let's go down to lover's lane with the love that we shared_

_Let's make the time tonight_  
_While the feelings right_  
_Reminisce on the love we had_

_Let's make the time tonight_  
_While the feelings right_  
_Reminisce on the love we had_

_I can see you standing there alone like an angel_  
_Tryin' to find his way home_  
_I don't remember, how we fell apart_  
_Here we are again, come on, right into my heart_

_I recall the days in ways of love we made_  
_I still feel the heat when we shared each other_  
_Don't you feel the magic? The mystery's in the air_  
_Let's go down to lover's lane with the love we shared_

_Let's make the time tonight_  
_While the feeling's right_  
_Reminisce on the love we had_

_Let's make the time tonight_  
_While the feeling's right_  
_Reminisce on the love we had_

**Reminisce is the property of Mary J. Blige.**

**AN: The memories/flashbacks are in italics. For the time being, the Brelly and Dylan/Brenda storylines will take place on different days, usually with Dylan/Brenda a day behind.**

The hat's all wrong. Something about the way it sinks forward, or tilts haphazardly is causing Brenda distress. She'd be willing to bet that Bonnie didn't have these problems. Next, she'll probably do something dangerous like choke herself with the string of pearls.

"You look like the saddest gangster's wife in the entire world," sighs Donna, offering her a roll of cookie dough.

Brenda tosses her Bonnie hat into her hamper, and turns towards Donna.

"Please don't eat that," says Brenda. "It's probably crawling with E. coli."

"I've had the desire to do it ever since I saw Suzanne Somers do it," breathes Donna, taking another large bite.

"I can't even let you enjoy your cookie dough," says Brenda, slapping her forehead. "I am a horrible human being."

"Bren, aren't you being overdramatic?" says Donna. "Oh wait. Forgot who I was talking to."

Smirking, Brenda pats Donna's head and lets the smirk fade as she stares sadly out her window.

"Why didn't I follow Dylan?" sighs Brenda.

"Was he carrying the tommy gun, cause that would make me stay put," kids Donna.

No, no tommy gun, and no vicious comments. Just feelings of betrayal crossing his mug right before he sped out of the driveway. What if Dylan does something dangerous? It's far more likely. Brenda grabs at the center of her white blouse. Her heart is rollicking underneath. All Dylan asked of her was to stand up for them. Why did she shrink beneath her father's stare? Part of her will always be his little girl, feel that way, but that's not who she is in other ways. She'd have to be more independent in England, for instance. Nobody could come to her rescue if she screwed up on stage. Nobody could defend her if they didn't like what she did, except herself. Dylan, on the other hand, might not have anyone this summer, and she doesn't like where that may lead.

"Don, you...you don't...you don't think he'd...drink, do you?" stammers Brenda, clutching the costume pearls around her neck.

"I mean, he was pretty mad," says Donna. "But...he's been sober for awhile."

"Right," says Brenda softly.

Donna squeezes the cookie dough, making a large orb of it quiver in her grip.

"Or," breathes Donna.

"Don!" cries Brenda.

"You're making me worry!" says Donna. "At first, I wasn't and then when you...ugh, I'm seriously not focused."

"I gotta...I gotta go to him," decides Brenda.

"Your dad's downstairs," says Donna. "What are you going to do?"

"What are _we_ going to do," corrects Brenda.

"Oh no!" says Donna, standing. "I can't deceive Jim and Cindy Walsh. It's like lying to Mike and Carol Brady, without the atrocious bellbottoms."

"I've been helping you," points out Brenda.

"Mmm, I'm already squeamish," moans Donna. "And it's not the cookie dough...it's sheer Catholic guilt."

"What bothers your conscience more?" says Brenda. "Dylan getting drunk after a long stretch of sobriety or my dad's face getting red for a few minutes?"

Donna stamps her foot, setting her cookie dough on three sheets of tissue she hasn't used. Brenda smiles triumphantly. Groaning, Donna joins Brenda at her vanity mirror.

"I wouldn't do this for Kelly and Dylan," says Donna. "You are so lucky I'm rooting for you guys."

Hugging her friend from the side, Brenda gets to sorting things out. She saw her mother go to her bedroom, and her dad's in the living room. He's most likely rewatching Brandon's Clinton encounter for the millionth time. He would be kind of distracted, more distracted if there was food. Dinner is unfortunately over. Most of their dessert food was consumed by Donna.

"Okay," says Brenda with a resolute sigh. "You're going to be me."

"What?" cries Donna.

"Get in the bed," says Brenda, ripping the covers away from her bed.

"But we have different body types," says Donna. "My butt's not that curvaceous."

"My dad's not going to look at your butt," says Brenda. "Ewwww."

"How are you going to explain where I am?" asks Donna.

"I'll play you," replies Brenda.

Donna hops into the bed, stares at the wall momentarily, and pulls the blankets over her head. Brenda spies a couple tendrils of blonde hair and tucks them under the spread.

"Love you for this," says Brenda.

"Love you, Bren," says a muffled reply.

While the hat may be wrong for this deception, a former blonde wig of hers will do just fine. Brenda retrieves the wig, Donna's denim jacket, and a pair of sunglasses. She dresses quickly and tip-toes down the stairs. From the corner of the eye, she sees Jim chuckling as Brandon's knuckles flash across the screen. What riveting nighttime viewing. She may get to leave without speaking. That's the plus. Brenda starts across the floor.

"Hello?" calls Jim. "Donna?"

Drat. She's inches from the door. Beads of sweat skid along Brenda's back.

"Mmmm hmmm," says Brenda, an octave higher than her usual voice.

"Wow, you've done something different with your hair," says Jim.

Great. The wig's no help either. She might as well revolve around and face the music.

"I like it," adds Jim.

Brenda's jaw drops.

"I know you're a bit depressed, and don't want to see anybody, but you will feel better," says Jim. "Sometimes nice guys like David do bad things. But at least he's not getting in real trouble like a couple other guys we both..."

He doesn't finish and doesn't have to, Brenda's cheeks growing warm. He's so against Dylan that he'll defend any other male in the process. He'll probably start reminscing about Stuart any second now.

"Take care of yourself," says Jim. "You're always welcome here."

"Mmmm hmmm," repeats Brenda, grabbing Donna's keys from her purse.

She slides out of the house without a second to lose. Thank goodness he bought it. She'll try Dylan's house first and if that doesn't pan out, the Peach Pit. And, despite every fiber in her being hoping it will be a wasted trip, the bar on Wilshire. Finnigan's has some flaw-filled memories. Those were days Dylan most likely wouldn't like to revisit. She wouldn't either.

II.

Washington National is a lot colder than LAX, with more grey hallways, more people in proper uniforms, more black and tightly bound pieces of luggage than Kelly can count. You have to look harder for the warmth in this scene. Stewardesses roll their carry-ons to seperate doors, occasionally grinning at her downturned face. The gold wings on the chests of pilots glint under the midday sun that blazes through the large windows. Holiday balloons and baby flags foretell future Memorial Day celebrations, the patriotic day right around the corner.

Around the corner, from where Kelly is seated near a row of payphones, Brandon is making the last arrangements for their flight back to California. So their last memory in this metropolitan city would be full of mockery and malice. She couldn't believe Clare could be that cruel and it's sure to be the last impression Brandon had of her during their whole plane ride home. Every other moment was near perfect, the Clare-free moments anyway. They were learning about each other, falling in love with parts of each other. Then Clare had to come along and ruin it, which was her intention all along.

The final bit of sabotage hurt the most, however, and Brandon probably knew it. She used to be really good at pretending not to care. When jocks would make cracks in the classroom or a fellow Beach Club member snickered when she walked by, Kelly put up her shield of practiced indifference. So what if a senior said he bagged her? He wasn't the first. So what if "trampy Taylor" and "bed-hopping bimbo" became the newest buzzwords at West Bev? They'd talk about someone else tomorrow...hopefully. She had Donna, the sweetest girl she's ever met, and she had a piece of pride in herself that never disappeared. Kelly clung to both during those difficult situations. But she's past high school now so why is she suffering? Why won't it all go away? She's sick of trying to show she's changed. When are _they_ going to change?

Kelly removes the caricature of Brandon that was done a couple days ago. Lenny got every line of Brandon's face right. He hasn't changed, hasn't had to alter himself to meet anybody's approval. In fact, he's so similar to the day she met him that it's easy for her to reenvision their first introduction in the West Bev quad. He stood alongside Brenda. Brandon was clearly eager to explore the campus despite mentioning the beach to Brenda before Kelly or Donna spoke. It was only when they bumped into one another again that Kelly was able to get a better read on him.

_She could've picked out that deep blue T-shirt and those light blue jeans anywhere, and the guy that wore them. They had to be from some pass-it-by department store. Had to be. But discount clothes can be appealing on the right body. She didn't look too long, though. Dating her new friend's twin brother? That would've been a soap opera storyline too complicated for words, or too delicious for words. Still, way too early. Plus he was preoccupied, scanning his schedule._

_Kelly's locker clattered open. She moved some party fliers to the left. She got a lot of those, usually about seven a week, for house parties, club openings, and any other event a guy thought she was cute enough to attend. Donna thought up the idea of scrapbooking the events they actually attended. The scary thing about it was that she was serious about it. She was so sentimental sometimes, not that Kelly hated any of her quirks. Brenda proved to be more quirky and maybe that's why Kelly was drawn to her. Here was a Midwestern girl, undeniably pretty but who stuck to her values. The Walshes were just plain interesting as a whole. No luxury vehicles, no custody arrangements, not even a pool. Strange, so strange, but comforting. Those types of families do exist._

_"Yo yo yo, check me out, if you want D-Silv as your deejay, lemme hear ya shout!" says an enthusiastic voice over the campus airwaves._

_"Hey!" barks another voice. "Get away from my mic!"_

_The sound of scuffling and a door opening followed the command, and then the PA went silent. Kelly shook her head. David Silver could be such a loser. Walking down the hall, Donna stared at a loudspeaker innocently._

_"Who is that?" said Donna absent-mindedly. "He is so dope!"_

_Sigh. She just called Brandon "dope" thirty minutes earlier, but Brandon deserved it._

_"What other pestering gnat would call himself D-Silv?" asked Kelly._

_"I don't know, but I totally should've shouted," said Donna, stroking her chin and continuing on her way._

_Kelly was tempted to bang her head against the locker next to hers, but retrieved her English textbook for summer reading instead. Without raising her eyes, she unceremoniously bumped into the boy with no ridiculous nickname and who was on her mind earlier. Brandon stooped to get her book. His piercing blue eyes matched the shade of his shirt, with his brown hair ruffling into its original position._

_"Hemingway was trying to get away, I guess," said Brandon, noticing the book cover._

_"He's a slippery son of a gun," said Kelly and then instantly regretting it._

_Really? Who says son-of-a-gun unless they're wearing spurs or roping steer? She thought it would be better to recover with a smidge of confidence._

_"I was hoping to bump into you," continued Kelly. "I didn't want your first impression of me to be of someone laying on their back all day...I mean, for tanning."_

_That was smoother. Doesn't half of the student body joke about her being on her back...not tanning. Brandon may've thought she was a whore. Kelly cradled Hemingway to her chest, cheeks changing to crimson._

_"Well, when my dad told us we were moving, the first image that did pop into my mind was a bunch of beautiful, beach-ready blondes," said Brandon._

_Kelly twisted her lips. Way to break the ice and stereotype yourself, Kel, she thought. He must not think much of her now._

_"And then I thanked him for that mental snapshot," added Brandon._

_She laughed, loosening her grip on the book a little. "We do like to sun ourselves and shop lots, I'm afraid."_

_"So in your expert shopper opinion, is this a good first day of school outfit?" said Brandon, stretching out his arms so she could make a proper assessment._

_"Yeah, you should always wear blue," replied Kelly, looking into his eyes. "And you look comfortable. That's key."_

_"And Bren said I was hopeless," waved off Brandon._

_"Nope," said Kelly._

_Brandon seemed pleased that he passed her test, and she was happy to tell him the truth. Steve and a couple other guys she dated were sticklers for wearing the right designer or besting their friends but this guy didn't seem to care and may've been only asking to make her feel less awkward._

_"I can't believe I'm not wearing a jacket in September," commented Brandon. "It's surreal."_

_"Just wait until you're wearing shorts in March," said Kelly._

_"Did that in Minnesota, but it was a dare," recalled Brandon. "Why can't we all just be pale and live in peace?"_

_"You'll change your tune soon," guessed Kelly. "Get the hang of it."_

_"We might have to do this evaluation everyday until I do," joked Brandon with a grin._

_"Whenever I'm alone at my locker," offered Kelly._

_"I'll let you be alone with Ernie, but could you point me to the Blaze newsroom?" said Brandon._

_Ernie? He thought she had a boyfriend? Oh, right, the author of her book. She was more quick on gesturing to the Blaze newsroom, nodding to her left._

_"Catch you later, Kelly Taylor," said Brandon, smiling and turning around._

_"Bye Brenda's brother!" called Kelly after him._

_Brandon paused and did a backwards wave. "Don't forget your sunblock!"_

_Kelly beamed, taking off in the opposite direction. _

Now, the fact that they're opposites is working against them. What if Clare's just the tip of the iceberg? What if the Walshes were okay with her being Brandon and Brenda's friend, but not Brandon's girlfriend? What if some jerk utters the word that was written on the mirror to Brandon and he gets tired of hearing about her past dalliances? She's made mistakes, sure, but they were exaggerated or misinterpreted or simply half-truths. The truth is is that she's more that girl at the locker than the girl others have imagined her to be.

Kelly leans forward, her arms over her legs, staring at the floor. The announcements of arrivals and departures go in and out of her ears. The gentle air conditioning from the terminal's vent strokes her ankles. She's still in the dress she wore to the reception. Frankly, she didn't have the heart to switch clothes and she packed with very little energy. Brandon must've noticed. Anybody could. They were silent in the taxi, the first time they'd stayed quiet all afternoon. Brandon sat with Kelly for a few minutes, then went to go get the tickets.

The tickets appear under her nose without any hint of noise. Brandon's shoes are perpendicular to her forehead. Kelly sits up reluctantly.

"There's an in-flight movie," says Brandon. "It may or may not star a Muppet...there's a lot of kids on board."

Despite the attempt, Brandon's humorous comment falls flat. She can't laugh, can't brush her sadness aside.

"Kelly," says Brandon, sitting and smoothing back her hair. "It's a worthless word from a pack of jealous idiots."

"Brandon, that word represents every other word I've heard growing up," sobs Kelly, her throat tightening. "And on our last day...that's not how I ever wanted you to see me."

"I don't," insists Brandon, leading her face to stare at his.

She'd love to believe him, as she searches for doubt in those same bright eyes that matched his first-day shirt. But it's difficult. How could a guy shrug that off, especially such a good guy like Brandon?

"Clare and her cronies can't erase what happened this week, what is going to happen with us," says Brandon. "You know that, don't you?"

"I want to," cries Kelly.

"I cherish everything we've done on this trip," says Brandon. "And I don't usually use the word 'cherish' so that's gotta mean something."

Kelly releases a pained chuckle, wipes her eyes with the hankerchief Brandon hands her.

"Remember when I totalled Mondale?" mentions Brandon. "What an emotional wreck I was, and how much harder I had to work to get any trust back?"

"I remember," says Kelly.

"I didn't like myself then, and I had a reason to," says Brandon. "You don't have a reason to not like yourself. Especially not today. Why beat yourself up over nothing?"

"Rumors are spread for a reason," says Kelly tentatively. "Brandon, I did sleep...with some guys. I didn't feel good about it..."

"The past is the past," counters Brandon. "Let the rumors die."

"But they're part of me," chokes out Kelly.

"They're not, Kelly," says Brandon. "They're not. Because I never think of them when I'm with you. Not before and certainly not now."

Removing the hankerchief to catch her breath, Kelly blinks maddeningly until her gaze is clear. She can detect that he's clear about what he says. Maybe the reason that the effect of the rumors has lasted so long is because she's letting them live.

"I still wish the day had gone differently," confesses Kelly, sniffling.

She lays her head on his shoulder, their hastily written baggage tags illegible in her sight. Brandon rubs her shoulder methodically.

"That?" says Brandon. "I agree with."

III.

He continually grits his teeth, his nerves on edge. There's the wire-rim glasses, sandy brown whiskers, the slightly crooked chin. Dylan hopes somebody punched him square in the chin to make it look like that. When he pictures this weasel from this day forward, he'll have harder features with a voice that sounds gravelly and a darkness in his eyes that changes to warmth on a whim.

"I can't believe I let this monster into my home," groans Dylan, gaze focused on the photographic record of the man on the computer screen. "I can't believe I let him dupe me and take my sister."

"We've caught scum like Kevin Weaver before," says Jonesy. "Don't you worry."

Jonesy hands Dylan a cup of coffee. Dylan looks into the liquid without the urge to down the contents. He'd enjoy something stronger, much stronger. He misses the days when he carried around a flask. Easy to down, easy to hide. Dylan sets the coffee on the desk.

"And Suzanne?" mutters Dylan. "She's a really good sell. A _really_ good sell."

"Maybe she got caught up in it and couldn't see straight," offers Jonesy.

"She's too whip-smart for that," says Dylan. "She knew exactly what to say to get me to go along with this."

"My boys haven't caught any big cash transfers...yet," says Jonesy.

"My money...it's gone," brushes off Dylan. "I had plans for it."

"It's not necessarily gone," reassures Jonesy. "Have a little faith."

"Man, I just want my sister back first," says Dylan.

"And that's what we're focusing on," says Jonesy. "Go home. Come back tomorrow."

Dylan checks his watch. He's been at the station for six and a half hours, with officers buzzing around him doing their jobs. Dylan doesn't even have a job. He still owns part of the Pit, and that would help with necessities, but going with Brenda to London may be out of the question. Who's he kidding? After walking out on her today, the trip was definitely out of the question before he got Erica's phone call. Brenda let him walk out. She didn't follow him because of his hard-headedness. It's the same quality that landed him at the police station. Jim did try and warn him about Kevin but his stubborn pride got in the way again. Maybe the Walshes were on to something. He ruins everything he touches...him and no one else.

"I'll go home," sighs Dylan.

"Are you okay to drive?" questions Jonesy.

It's a very cop-type question, but it's also the first sign that Hawaiian shirt dude/Jonesy cared about Dylan's well-being more than solving the case.

"I'm good," replies Dylan.

He passes a police officer and a handcuffed perp coming into the entrance. How he wishes that perp was Kevin. The accused sneers at Dylan until the officer jolts him towards Jonesy.

Jumping into his car, Dylan runs both of his hands through his hair. What's the point in going home to an empty house? To be reminded of what he's lost, to be in the place where he last saw Erica? He wishes he could scrub away those scenes and start fresh. He bangs the dashboard, a couple items falling from his glove compartment. One is an old, torn West Bev bumper sticker an annoying member of the Pep Club stuck on his car. The other is a bookmark of Erica's with a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. He crumples the bumper sticker and holds up the bookmark. Would he ever get the chance to give it back to her? Would she forget him if they failed to find her?

Mexico. That's where she said they were headed. There's no doubt in his mind that she's right. Unlike that creep Kevin, who would list every city on the California coast, Dylan trusted Erica's gut. But Mexico's so large. It's a shame since he has some great memories of Mexico. Being there with Brenda is at the top of his list of personal highlights. Of course, Jim retrieving Brenda was the low point. Everything before, though, was amazing. Both Baja and Bren were beautiful. Now Mexico will always be tainted for him, thanks to Kevin's dirty dealings.

Dylan lets the bookmark fall to the seat. The sun is setting in front of him, the outside ready to envelop him in the night. He might as well grab onto the thing that got him through the other dark times. Who's there to tell him different? He's burned too many bridges. Dylan cranks the car into drive, speeding out of the station lot, onto a familiar track. He is more than willing to stare down at the empty bottom of a glass. At least there the only disappointed person he'll view will be himself.

Finnigan's hasn't lost its appeal. He's driven by the bar on several nights, sometimes with AA chips housed in his pocket. He repeated the usual remarks his group ran through, points that emphasized redemption and willpower. Dylan can scarcely remember a word of them as he parks outside his former haunt. They barely carded here...bad for business. Just the ticket for a guy whose business went bad. Up in smoke. Isn't that how old Jack died? Dylan grimaces, images of the explosion rattling his brain. Destruction enjoys waiting for him, doesn't it?

He enters the evening rush, Happy Hour having already commenced. There's a few clearly underage college kids, a handful of auto workers, a couple waitresses he may've flirted with, and that gold ol' bartender Tyce. Tyce recognizes Dylan, his eyes almost leaving his skull.

"Where you been hiding?" asks Tyce, shaking his hand.

"Nowhere," says Dylan.

It was the truth. He was doing more hiding when he was drinking.

"You were never much of a chatterbox," laughs Tyce. "What can I do you for?"

"Coke...for now," answers Dylan.

"Nothing like a slow start," says Tyce. "A buck fifty."

Dylan coughs up the money, catches the glass when it flies to him. He closes his eyes, the cold Coke in the glass numbing his fingers. The last trip here came directly after Jack's funeral. He almost didn't want to give his father or his father's enemies the satisfaction of getting plastered, to show that he was unravelling that quickly. Dylan and Kelly were in the Walsh kitchen. Kelly thought it would be useful to go through the floral arrangements, make a list for people who deserved thank-you cards. Dylan didn't feel much like thanking people. He snapped at her, a common act he wishes he had more control over. So he went to search for control at the end of a liquor bottle. He went to Finnigan's, thought about drinking until his eyes stung from all the frustration. Dylan considered phoning his sponsor but ultimately he rung Brandon, who wasn't even home. Cindy received the message and promised to give it to Brandon, but that's not who came.

_He lined up a bunch of pretzels like they were soldiers. Their salted bodies kept his hands and mind busy. They kept his eyes away from the glittering gin bottles, the dripping wine with gold labels, the scotch he knew by name. He figured that his mantra about "only drinking at family reunions" would die with Jack. Less stress, right? Wrong. Despite the drama, the pain, and the shady relationships in this whole messed up scenario, Dylan did love his dad in some twisted way. So to see those fruit baskets, flowers, and cards coming in, from people who knew Jack better than he did, was crushing. There would be no more family reunions where he could reach for a better relationship. It was done._

_"You're all over the news," said Tyce, mopping the counter with a clean rag._

_"I'm the McKay of the day," said Dylan sarcastically. _

_Tyce shrugged, left Dylan with a shot glass of soda. He ordered it but was trying to decide what to order with it. Rum or scotch or anything that has a kick and will kick the heartache right out of him._

_"What will get me wasted the fastest?" asked Dylan when Tyce crossed him._

_"Our menu hasn't changed," said Tyce. "I can make what you had a couple years ago."_

_"My father was alive a couple years ago," muttered Dylan. "Gimme a minute to think."_

_Not having to be told twice, Tyce went to a pair or ladies celebrating their single status. Like there was any real cause to celebrate. Dylan shook his glass, then roughly slammed it down. He put his thumbs against his temples. He's earned this anger, this trip, so why was he stalling? Life gave him a bad hand, always did, always will. Nothing should've stopped him._

_"Dylan," said an audible voice, pleading as a prayer, light as a gentle song._

_He briefly glanced to his right, then shook himself out of his solemnity. Brenda folded her hands together and approached him. She wore the same dress she had on at the funeral, her cheeks flushed. What was she doing here? He couldn't stare at her for too long. He didn't relish the idea of her viewing him in his crumpled suit, with ruffled hair, with the desire for a drink in his eyes._

_"Who told you?" said Dylan softly, gripping the edge of the counter._

_"Mom," said Brenda. "I practically had to drag it out of her. But I wanted to come."_

_"I've been trying to decide what to add to this Coke for an hour," said Dylan._

_Brenda climbed onto a stool next to his. He expected her to lift the glass, take a whiff, but she didn't. Honestly, any other girl might have done that other than Brenda. He felt foolish for thinking she would. _

_"Funerals are so...final," continued Dylan. "It's picking me apart, Bren."_

_"You don't need to let yourself go when you're letting him go," said Brenda, holding his hand. "We're here. Your friends, Kelly...me. I'm always here."_

_Touching her fingers slightly, Dylan was startled by a charge, like that of static electricity, yet that's not really what it was since the sensation lasted further than he could describe. Brenda slowly unravelled her fingers. He missed when she didn't have to do that, when he could take her in his arms whenever he got the urge. _

_"Why do I have to break...all the time?" whispered Dylan, choking on the words._

_Dylan watched the tears on his nose coast to the counter, his breaths coming out in short spurts._

_"It's just like when we met," said Dylan. "I still can't keep it together. I lost my dad, I lost you..."_

_"If I were lost, I wouldn't be next to you," said Brenda. "You've been with me through some of the toughest experiences of my life. You couldn't lose me if you tried." _

_She returned her hand to where she had let go, this time keeping it frozen on his coat sleeve when Dylan wrapped his hand around it._

_"And don't put up walls around yourself, Dylan, when you have to go through yours," said Brenda. "Though I am a pretty good climber."_

_"Save your boots for your first Sundance film festival," reassured Dylan. "No walls to climb."_

_Brenda nodded, hopping off the stool. _

_"Deep down, I was hoping it would be you," admitted Dylan._

_"Not Kelly?" said Brenda. "Or Brandon?"_

_"You would've been my first call, no question," said Dylan. "After asking myself if I deserved your time."_

_Without a hesitant motion, Brenda hugged him fully. Dylan let his nose sink into her shoulder._

_"Well, you got your answer," said Brenda._

Dylan removes himself from his reverie, the loud clangs and gossip of the bar returning. Tyce flips a whiskey bottle with a sly grin. Rolling his eyes, Dylan revolves his stool to the door. He's made no calls so why did his instincts pivot him in that direction? He sips, the ice rattling to his teeth. Two minutes later, he's asking for another. Tyce waits, as if he's also expecting a repeat performance.

"Scotch," selects Dylan.

"I read your mind," says Tyce, fetching the bottle.

He pours in the scotch, slides the drink towards Dylan. Tyce whistles and turns his back. The strong scent of liquor invades his nostrils. It smells like...defeat. Dylan swallows a lump forming in his throat, ready to pour it down the hatch. He lifts it, lowers it, lifts it, lowers it, and then a final lift.

"Dylan!" calls a voice carrying over the other people in the room.

His hand holds the glass steady while the rest of his body swerves, like it hasn't forgotten the same action it performed years ago. Unlike that night, Brenda's eyes are deep and tear-filled, the remainder of her face troubled. Unlike that night, he can't slam the glass to the table quickly. Unlike that night, he can barely speak...or think.

"Bren," sighs Dylan faintly. "Help."

She reaches the counter in a flash, leading him to rise, crying with him as shouts of joy and weekend frivolity surround them. She's more solid than ever, just in time as ever.

"Almost, Bren," confesses Dylan tearfully. "I almost did."

"You didn't," says Brenda, stroking his back. "You didn't."

IV.

"Why is it that men never seem to fold their towels?" yells Brenda, smiling sheepishly.

Casually sorting the things she retrieved from the linen closet, Brenda notices a new set that must've come courtesy of Iris. The orange towels had blue waves and a hippie-ish pattern of pink and green psychic vibrations. They were the only incredibly clean ones that weren't waiting to be washed. There were more sentimental belongings in the dirty pile that elevated her mood - a green pair of towels Dylan used when they were in Palm Springs near the pool, when Dylan got jealous over the mysterious "Tom"; a yellow set with chili peppers Brenda made Dylan buy as a Baja souvenir; a tattered, tie-dye towel that had seen better days at a Beach Club cookout. Any of these would be nice to give Dylan post-shower after they were washed, but they were also somewhat painful to sort through. The last thing Dylan needs is a frown. Brenda manages a grin upon Dylan's reentry.

There's a lot to grin about. Dylan awkwardly strolls out in a towel that must've already been in the bathroom. It's purple and appreciatively short. Brenda directs her attention to Dylan's blinking answering machine.

"They're waiting for a pretty woman to do it for them, of course," jokes Dylan. "Let me have it."

He folds the towel, setting it beside Brenda's handiwork.

"Not to brag, but mine looks the best," asserts Dylan.

"It's totally crooked," points out Brenda. "You can't do corners."

"The corners give the towels some character," says Dylan. "Now I could take the one around me off and we can have a little lesson..."

Brenda gasps, whipping him with Iris' gift.

"Touchy, touchy," says Dylan, with mock hurt. "I'll be out in a sec."

After disappearing into the bathroom, Brenda lunges for the phone. Eleven o' clock sharp, reads her watch. She went to five different places before Finnigan's with fleeting confidence. What if she had gone to Finnigan's ten seconds later? Or worse, ten minutes later? She would've had to drag a drunk Dylan home, blaming herself the entire way for not being smart enough to go there first. Well, she is smart enough to check on Donna. The plan seemed pretty full-proof but it wouldn't hurt to check.

The phone rings twice, until someone picks up.

"Hello?" says Jim groggily. "Hello?"

Brenda immediately slams the phone in its cradle. He's awake. That might not mean anything. She convinces herself not to be concerned. He would yell at her if he thought it was her, right? Right.

The bathroom door creaks open. Dylan comes into the living room in a gray T-shirt and black shorts. You could more than see the muscles underneath the shirt, however. Brenda clears her throat. Dylan lights two candles and shuts off the room's lamps.

"What are you doing?" says Brenda.

"Cutting down on my electricity bill," replies Dylan. "With my money situation up in the air, this is a good alternative."

When Brenda drove Dylan home, he spilled part of what was bothering him. Brenda sort of knew that her father was weary about Kevin and now it sounds like he was right. She senses there's still a lot to the story, though, that Dylan hasn't told her yet.

"Feels like more of an alternative to outright flirtation," guesses Brenda.

"Why, Brenda Walsh," says Dylan. "You must have me pegged for some other cad."

"Like who?" says Brenda.

"Like you," replies Dylan.

"I have never heard of a woman being a cad," asserts Brenda.

"It's the nineties," says Dylan. "Women can be whatever they want to be."

Dylan plops the two candle holders on the coffee table, sitting on his sofa. Brenda sighs, crosses his arms.

"Surely you're not going to wander around in the dark?" says Dylan.

"Don't call me Shirley," says Brenda, lowering herself to the sofa.

"Oh, not even thirty minutes in, and we've got a movie reference!" kids Dylan.

Laughing, Brenda allows herself to inch closer to him. Dylan eventually guides her cheek to his chest. This is nice, way better than how they parted at her house.

"How did you escape Jim's surveillance?" asks Dylan.

"A decoy," sighs Brenda.

"Why didn't I come up with that?" says Dylan.

"Listen, Dylan," says Brenda, biting her lip. "I'm sorry I didn't go with you. Especially if it meant...going on that...field trip."

"It was stupid of me to go," sighs Dylan. "And it was a lot leading me to that field. There's a lot going on."

"Tell me," says Brenda.

"I will...just not tonight," says Dylan.

It was a rough night. They could use the breather. Brenda traces a fingernail over Dylan's chest. Dylan smirks in the dark.

"Yes, I'm still ripped, if that's what you're evaluating," claims Dylan.

"Shut up!" cries Brenda, pushing his head. "You're the one lighting candles. Ahem ahem."

"Well, ahem ahem, you weren't complaining," points out Dylan.

"It's my prerogative to be silent," says Brenda with a shrug.

"Oh, Brenda," sighs Dylan, kissing her through her hair. "You are so you."

"And you are so you," returns Brenda.

Which explains why this is comfortable, why she hasn't complained. They have more than a slew of towels to chronicle their relationship. They've sat this way before in the same position in the same place. It's like when and where they left off, before the hurt came barrelling in and knocked them down.

"The fact is I don't trust myself when I'm around you," whispers Brenda.

"That's a problem, Bren," says Dylan. "Because you're still the only person I _can_ trust."

"A second chance scares me to be honest," says Brenda.

"I practically live on second chances," affirms Dylan. "But the only scary thing for me is if we don't have one."

Brenda wipes away the wetness invading her gaze, focusing on the flickering candles. He sounds so sincere. Why shouldn't she believe him when he's fighting ten times harder?

"Can you stay?" whispers Dylan.

"Actually...I can," answers Brenda breathily.

A bit taken aback, Dylan scoots to the table to readjust the candles. Brenda stands, trying to choose between going to the bathroom to freshen up or stick by the sofa. Based on Dylan's attentive gaze, the bathroom could wait. Dylan stands and plays with a prop, hidden under her blouse, that he must remember.

"Are these Bonnie's?" asks Dylan.

"I was dressing up for Donna," says Brenda defensively. "She wanted to see it one last time."

"Well, I like seeing it one last time," says Dylan. "And you dressed up for me first if I recall."

Brenda looks him up and down, notices the shortening length of the vanilla white candles.

"You were the first guy to undress me...if you recall," says Brenda as she comes nearer to him. "Little help?"

"I'm happy to be of service," says Dylan.

Tugly gently at her waist, he places his mouth against her mouth, Brenda feeling her breath stolen from her, and a heat stronger than the flames dancing on the two wicks. She lets her lips tangle with his while the muscles of their faces move and meld. Brenda breaks away to stroke his neck.

"This is okay?" whispers Dylan.

"More than," replies Brenda.

Dylan raises the pearls for easier access to her blouse.

"You're so classy, Bren," says Dylan, unbuttoning her shirt. "I've always loved that about you."

The shirt falls to her sides. Brenda moans, when Dylan runs his fingers along the skin covering her ribs. He lets his index finger trail from the center of her bra down to her bellybutton, where the pearls stop.

"Old-time film star beauty," whispers Dylan as he starts to kiss her neck. "And currently sexy."

"I'm glad I'm here," breathes Brenda.

"It's my intention to make you gladder," sighs Dylan, leading her to the couch.

Before her body meets the cushions, Dylan's brow arches. Brenda wrinkles her own. Suddenly, a repetitive banging fills the room. Brenda twerks her neck to view a shadowy figure behind the house's side window.

"What the?" says Dylan.

"Who is that?" says Brenda, instinctively grabbing the orange towel to cover herself.

Dylan storms over to the door, opens it, and looks sideways for a second. Whatever warmth that was in the room is permanently gone. Brenda wishes she could sink between the cushions.

"Blackout?" says Jim.

He flicks on the lights. Brenda nervously pulls on her shirt.

"Keep your hands off my daughter!" shouts Jim, walking inside.

"Oh, so I can't come into your home but you can come into mine?" says Dylan.

"Believe me, this will be the last instance where you find me here," vows Jim. "It's just that I was lied to tonight and I want to know what's going on."

Brenda's eyes flit from Dylan to her dad, unaware of what to do. How did he figure out that she left the house?

"You knew I called?" says Brenda.

"No, I thought it was Dylan, what with the hanging up, and thought it would be nice to let _you_ know," says Jim. "Though I'm beginning to question that moment of weakness."

Moment of weakness? That's the most understanding thing he's done in the last week.

"Then Donna pops out of bed like a jack in the box!" continues Jim. "And I come here to see the two of you scantily clad without a care in the world!"

"Maybe if you gave her a little more freedom, your blood pressure would go down," suggests Dylan, shrugging. "I mean, you were a freakin' Peeping Tom out there."

"Maybe if you stopped being a smart aleck, you wouldn't find yourself alone in a rut," counters Jim.

"I'm not alone tonight," says Dylan.

"You're about to be," says Jim, glaring at him and then her. "Brenda, you've disrespected me before, but this really takes the cake. If you're going to live under my roof, some things are going to change."

What is she, sixteen? This is embarrassing, for her, for Dylan, even for him. It's insane.

"We're going home," says Jim, already opening the front door.

"No!" cries Brenda.

"Excuse me?" says Jim.

"I said no," says Brenda. "I'm not going with you."

"Brenda, this is much different than that other time you stayed here," insists Jim. "You're eighteen. You're an adult who should be making mature decisions."

"Exactly," affirms Brenda. "And I've made my choice."

Dylan offers her a relieved expression, her father clearly repulsed.

"You can pay for London by yourself," says Jim.

He walks briskly out of the living room, the floorboards groaning in his wake, and slams the door. Brenda practically jumps when the door meets the hinges. As much as she'd like to enjoy her newfound bravery, she can't. She collapses into a heap on the couch. Dylan holds her in his arms.

"I'm...I'm sure he didn't mean that," consoles Dylan.

"No, he meant it," sobs Brenda. "He meant it so much."


	10. Mad About You

**X**.** Mad About You**

_I'm mad about you_  
_You're mad about me babe_  
_Couple of fools run wild aren't we_  
_Pushing the day into the nighttime_  
_Somewhere between the two_  
_We start to see_

_Mad about you (Mad about you)_  
_Lost in your eyes (Reason aside)_  
_Mad about love (Mad about you)_  
_You and I_

_Something 'bout you_  
_Right here beside me_  
_Touches the touched part of me like I can't believe_  
_Pushing the night into the daytime_  
_Watching the sky's first light_  
_While the city sleeps_

_Mad about you (Mad about you)_  
_Lost in your eyes (Reason aside)_  
_Mad about love (Mad about you)_  
_You and I_

_Mad about you (Mad about you)_  
_Lost in your eyes (Reason aside)_  
_Mad about love (Mad about you)_  
_You and I_  
_I'm mad about you_  
_You're mad about me babe_  
_Couple of fools run wild aren't we_

_Mad about you (Mad about you)_  
_Lost in your eyes (Reason aside)_  
_Mad about love (Mad about you)_  
_You and I_

**Mad About You is the property of Belinda Carlisle.**

**Rio is the property of Duran Duran.**

There's no remedy for a delayed flight, especially when you're battling a bad memory. Brandon checks the arrivals and departures for a fourth time. Still, no luck. Kelly has yet to leave her seat by the payphones and he can't stay in his. He has to get her out of here, somehow, some way.

Jim and Cindy weren't expecting him until tomorrow. They, of course, didn't know about his guest but they did encourage him on the day before his trip to spend an extra day there and soak up the historic city for all it was worth. If he were a betting man, which got him into trouble in the past, he'd say that his parents already have him pegged for a future Washington D.C. resident. The idea crossed his mind off and on. He could certainly be a senator or a journalist or an activist or whatever else in this particular place, but he would miss a lot about L.A. Plus, what if Brenda went to London? Wouldn't they want one Walsh kid nearby? Then, what if this relationship with Kelly got stronger and stronger? Wouldn't she want him nearby?

She's clearly on another planet now, as Nat would say, continually blinking at a display window full of metropolitan souvenirs. He wonders if she regrets coming here...to see him, after going through all of this. She could've stuck around Los Angeles and found another guy that didn't bring her heartache, not that he meant to, not that it was his fault. But he does wonder. He's dated some drama-filled girls in the past, namely Emily and Lucinda. They sure took him for a ride. The last thing he'd like is to put Kelly through any dramatic scenes that leave her sad or worse, broken. She went through the ringer with Dylan and she just can't go through that twice. He won't let it be like that.

That doesn't mean he couldn't use some advice on the subject. Brandon digs three quarters out of his pockets, holds them as he heads towards Kelly.

"Why don't you get something to eat?" says Brandon. "I doubt we're moving anytime soon."

"I overheard that there's a security breach at LAX," shares Kelly. "So you're probably right. I guess I'll get a sandwich."

"Make sure to ask for American cheese, so they know you're patriotic," suggests Brandon. "They might waive the sales tax. Don't we already pay them enough taxes?"

Kelly releases a reluctant smile. "I'll be back."

"I'll be waiting," says Brandon with a soft kiss to her forehead.

As soon as Kelly's at the sandwich stand, Brandon puts in the quarters and lets the phone ring. Andrea answers on the second ring. Her chipper "hello" relaxes him instantly.

"May I speak to the smartest mother in the NICU please?" asks Brandon.

"This is she," humors Andrea. "But not for long. They're letting us bring Hannah home soon!"

That's amazing, especially after what those two had to endure for the past couple of months. He couldn't think of two more deserving parents.

"Best news you ever gave me, Chief," says Brandon.

"Well, I liked my piece on faculty parking spaces, but I agree," kids Andrea. "We saw you on TV. You and a blonde we both know well."

"Steve?" says Brandon.

"Don't play innocent," laughs Andrea. "Should I expect a package deal the next time I see the two of you?"

Brandon sighs. "If only it were that simple."

"Spill," insists Andrea. "I kept Kelly's secret so I consider myself a worthy accomplice. Plus Jesse's occupado polishing off about a pound of gelatin."

"Hey!" exclaims Jesse from afar. "It's green...it's the good kind!"

Blowing out a long breath, Brandon does in fact spill, about everything. From Clare's first advances to Kelly's last concerns. Andrea doesn't speak during the duration. She wouldn't which is why they've remained so close despite some awkward interactions during high school. However, she isn't afraid to let him have it, deliver the truth point blank.

"Brandon, why do you think I hired you?" questions Andrea, frankly the last question Brandon was expecting.

"My cheekbones?" offers Brandon.

"No," says Andrea. "Because you don't give up. If anything goes wrong, you won't stop until you make it right. Kelly will come around because...she can count on you."

His former newspaper boss pretty much nailed his personality. He wouldn't be happy until Kelly was happy. It's how his mind worked and that's not a bad quality. He only hopes Kelly's "coming around" was a surety.

"Andrea...," starts Brandon.

"Go for the brass ring, Brandon," interrupts Andrea. "Feelings brought her there, and hopefully feelings will bring you guys home together. After what I went through this week, I have faith in most things, especially you two."

"You really are a smart mom," says Brandon.

"Presumably," says Andrea. "Tell Kel I said hello."

"Bye, Chief," says Brandon, grinning and hanging up.

Unlike their flight, Kelly arrives right on time, with two wrapped sandwiches in her possession. Kelly's in better spirits. Perhaps walking to and fro or the promise of food inspired the change. Whatever it was, he plans on keeping it going. Brandon lifts their suitcases without so much as a word.

"Aren't we going to eat these?" asks Kelly. "I even got American cheese."

"We'll eat them...at the hotel," replies Brandon.

"What?" says a slack-jawed Kelly. "We planned to spend the night at my apartment..."

"We're not leaving this city on that note,"says Brandon clearly. "Can't. Not when you came out here for me."

"Brandon, have you lost your senses?" cries Kelly.

"Think so," answers Brandon. "Wanna join me?"

"I..I guess," says a startled Kelly. "I mean, yes."

Kelly's more loquacious once they're settled inside a taxi. Switching flights was no trouble at all what with several other annoyed passengers willing to do the same. And while he couldn't treat her to an amazing night on the town, or a four-star dinner, Brandon had enough funds to secure a room for tonight. Their old friend Jacques was expecting them anyway.

"I take it you remembered I put you on our reservations list," says Jacques, beaming. "I had a good feeling about the two of you."

"So do we," says Brandon. "But we're going to need another room..."

Brandon is interrupted by a strong pat on the back, the brim of clean-cut white hair appearing in his side vision. Chancellor Arnold stands near him. He's signing the guest book with a pained smile that suggests he has something else on his mind.

"Why not take my room, Brandon?" says Chancellor Arnold. "I meant to stay here another night with some colleagues, but that's no longer the case. Thanks to my deviant daughter."

"What happened, sir?" asks Brandon.

"Underage drinking in a New York Club is what happened," replies Chancellor Arnold.

Wow. Brandon supposes Clare "procured Merlot from some upperclassmen" a little too well. He recalls baby-sitting her during her wild child ways; he can't imagine doing that for seventeen long years.

"I think a few hours in jail will sober her up," says Chancellor Arnold with a terse expression. "She can't pull this kind of stunt if she's living at home. Be sure of that."

"So she's going to school in California?" broaches Brandon weakly.

Brandon's stomach grows tight while Kelly appears downright sickened.

"CU," answers Chancellor Arnold. "She just can't stay away from me. Anyhoo, I think you guys will like the executive suite. It's top-notch. Fantastic city views, a fully stocked kitchen, and best of all, there's two beds."

Doing his best to return the Chancellor's now jovial smile, he exchanges a short glance with Kelly who raises her eyebrows and smiles at the administrator. Two beds...super.

"Thank you very much, sir," says Brandon. "This makes the end of an amazing trip that much more amazing."

"What he said," adds Kelly.

"Jacques, please take care of them," says Chancellor Arnold. "See ya on the West Coast."

Chancellor Arnold walks to the hotel entrance and disappears before Jacques can retrieve the hotel key.

"I almost feel bad for Clare," remarks Kelly. "Key word: almost."

"I don't," says Brandon, enjoying Kelly's laugh afterwards. "But you gotta love her dad. Come on."

II.

"There's like five different kinds of pepper in here," mutters Dylan.

Scanning his spice rack that his mom arranged, which he made a habit of not using, Dylan takes out the middle container and throws the spice into the bowl liberally. He can add one more egg on top of it just so it'll cover the taste if it's the wrong pepper. Right. Now he knows why he's eaten at the Pit or gotten take-out for the past several years. Then, there were the hotel meals his dad always missed.

But when you have a father like Jim Walsh, you're pretty fortunate no matter how you slice it. Brenda probably isn't counting her blessings this morning...not after last night. Still, Dylan bets this riff with her father will blow over in no time flat. The Walshes, if nothing else, were pretty predictable. The parents came through for the kids even if the dad was temporarily a hothead and the kids tried his last nerve. Jim didn't mean what he said. It's in his character to support her dreams. Maybe not her relationships, but definitely her dreams.

He hopes Brenda is dreaming, her body laying on his couch as the sun hits her light brown hair in flattering spots. She cried herself to sleep. Dylan tried to convince her that Jim was bluffing, tried whole-heartedly. But she wouldn't believe him. Jim put up a good front. That was true. However, Brenda insisted that she'd never seen her father that angry before. Dylan pondered why she was so sure. Maybe their fights had escalated too much, the last fight here being the breaking point. If so, then he was the cause and he didn't enjoy it. Brenda deserves a good relationship because she actually had a good father. If Jim got that stick out of his butt, they could all be happy, but if it comes down to him and Jim, he'd hate to be the one to tear up a father-daughter bond. Especially post-Erica. Losing family, despite the drama that comes with them, sucks.

Something else sucks too - accidentally dropping halves of an eggshell into a bowl.

"Aww, man!" cries Dylan, then silencing himself.

"Dylan?" says Brenda.

Her eyes remain closed, fluttering open when Dylan doesn't reply. Ugh. His bad cooking woke her up.

Brenda rises to look at him. "Are you actually...using an oven?"

"Yeah, I figured I'd serve you breakfast in bed," says Dylan. "Or breakfast on couch. Wait a minute...that couch can fold out into a bed. Probably should've rolled it out."

"No," says Brenda. "I was too upset to care much."

Excellent, and here he is prompting her to remember all the conflict.

"The bed's uncomfortable anyways," says Dylan. "Do you want some microwave pancakes?"

"Nah, I see you're making eggs," says Brenda. "I'll try those."

"Uhhh, okay," says Dylan.

He stares skeptically into the bowl and does his best to hide it when Brenda walks into the kitchen. She's wearing a sweatshirt he retrieved for her last night. The lumpy grey material brought out the smoothness of her complexion. Brenda is beautiful without all the make-up, has been since they met.

"This isn't all I'm making," shares Dylan. "I made plans for the whole day. You're going to be full of so much fun stuff, you're going to puke."

"Oooh, do tell," encourages Brenda.

"It wouldn't be a surprise if I did," says Dylan. "Just be patient, Bren. Real patient."

"You're one cruel event planner," sighs Brenda.

"I put the T in event," kids Dylan. "The T stands for totally cool by the way."

"Of course," says Brenda with a chuckle.

"Now let me just heat up the oven so we can get crackin'," says Dylan.

"Speaking of crackin'," says Brenda, moving to find the bowl. "Am I just supposed to eat around the shells or is this a new type of cuisine?"

"Man!" cries Dylan.

Both of them break into laughter, a welcome change given the things that have occurred in his house the past two days. It's even more welcome to hear her specific laughter which doesn't stop for a good minute. Their chuckling ends as the phone rings. That's the signal for part two. David's getting him some crucial information. Dylan raises Brenda momentarily, resulting in a small shriek, and carries her across the living room until they're by the phone. She pokes his shoulder as he lets her down. Dylan chuckles while picking up the phone.

"Hello?" says Dylan.

His features harden when nobody replies. Strange. Yet he can hear breathing, very loud breathing. The breaths are followed by a deep cough. That's followed by someone slamming the phone down on the other end. The only sure thing is that that wasn't David.

"Wrong number?" says Brenda.

"Must've been," says Dylan, doing his utmost to keep his composure light.

"Well, I'm going to check the newspaper for a hint," announces Brenda, turning her heel and walking out in her socked feet. "Read about what's going on today."

"You're not going to find it in there!" shouts Dylan after her.

Who would call and not say anything to him? Kevin? Please don't let it be that jerk. This can't be another problem mucking up things. If it were Jonesy, or a police officer, they would've talked. Wouldn't they?

Brenda returns, but Dylan notices that she's casting glances over her shoulder. It doesn't take long for Dylan to see why.

"Dylan, that green car across the street," says Brenda. "Didn't that family move out in January?"

"Yeah," says Dylan. "They must've sold the place."

He tenderly sweeps Brenda inside, takes stock of the guy staring ahead at the car's windshield and then the fallen For Sale sign in the front lawn. Yesterday, that For Sale sign was straight as a pole. The man beeps his horn and rides hard down the road without a first glance.

III.

This day already started off better than planned. After abandoning the eggs they couldn't save, Brenda ate Dylan's successful attempts at toast and waffles (also courtesy of the toaster). She didn't care about him because of his culinary skills, but she really loved the rest of him. She was very, very much tempted to drop the "L" bomb at breakfast. For whatever reason, they've been skittering around that declaration lately. She is afraid to get hurt but she's more afraid that Dylan thinks she's holding out on that due to Daddy Dearest.

Her thoughts go in between mocking her father and being torn to pieces over him. She figured Dylan had a better chance of breaking her heart than her own dad. Brenda frowns into the rear view mirror of Dylan's car. Dylan is tapping his fingers to a song on the radio, his eyes on the road. She's glad. She doesn't like the idea of him catching her flashes of exterior heartache. Inside, she's messed up to the nines.

Last night, she had a single, hours-long nightmare. The scene chilled her to the bone. The Walshes were at a funeral, unfortunately Dylan's. Brenda was crying so much she thought her face would fall off. The reason for his death remained secret. That was perhaps the worst part of it, until she turned to her father for solace. Cindy kept hugging her repeatedly and Brandon held up pretty well. Her brother was sitting next to Kelly and that's how Brenda knew the timeline was fairly current. Jim Walsh, on the other hand, would not reach out to her or offer her any kind remark. He turned from her and walked down the aisle toward the exit without breaking a sweat. That's when Brenda awoke to the smell of eggs. If he can't be there in the most horrible of circumstances, how can she rely on him otherwise?

Brenda exhales, instinctively looking to check if Dylan was alive in the flesh. What was that part of the nightmare telling her? No, she's overreacting. The image of her smoothing his hair, with his body surrounded by white rose floral displays and wearing a tailored black suit, is just a bad, false blur. You can't touch or kiss a blur. She quickly kisses Dylan on his cheek.

"What was that for?" asks Dylan.

She's not discussing the dream when he's got this wonderful day mapped out. In fact, she's hesitant to ever tell him about it. She stays quiet.

"Why am I asking?" continues Dylan. "It's obvious you dig me."

"Shut up," laughs Brenda. "Of course I'd dig you more if you spilled the beans."

"If you wait three right turns, the beans will be spilled," offers Dylan.

"I'm intrigued," says Brenda.

The car veers right and heads off the highway. Two more swift turns reveal a large building the size of a clothing factory. Though, it's not a factory. Brenda gasps and grabs Dylan's free hand. The Hollywood Wax Museum announces its presence loud and clear. This attraction was on Brenda's personal to-do list since she moved to Los Angeles and she must've told Dylan that a thousand times. They didn't get the chance to go, however, mainly because they were either broken up or dealing with crises that came their way. But the fact that he brought her here to the longest-running wax museum in the U.S. spoke volumes. Sorry, Brandon, this kind of beats the White House.

"You thought I forgot?" says Dylan teasingly.

"You just went way up the list," praises Brenda. "Is that what you were talking with David about?"

"Yep, he phoned me with the times," explains Dylan. "I think Mel Silver has a season pass. I wonder if he checks Charlie Chaplin's teeth."

"Dylan, for you to remember this is...," begins Brenda.

"What I do," finishes Dylan.

"The cost, though," says Brenda softly.

"So what?" says Dylan. "I should've taken you in high school. We might've not missed the Ghostbusters."

"Still," sighs Brenda.

"Money's not a big deal to me," reassures Dylan. "Besides, I checked my account when we were at the gas station, cause I knew you would be antsy about it. It's all there. One day of good fun isn't going to destroy me."

Would now be a good opportunity to say those three words? Before she can, Dylan's out of the car and heading to her side. He opens the door.

"This way to the stars, sweetheart," says Dylan in a Marx brothers accent, locking the car and then holding her hand.

They tread across the parking lot, colorful banners with the museum's name covering different surfaces. The ticket booth resembles a ticket station from old movie houses. A chirpy cashier greets them with a can-do attitude.

"Welcome to the Hollywood Wax Museum!" says the cashier. "Be certain to see our newest figures, Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow, and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air himself, Will Smith, complete with light-up microphone."

"We'll take two," says Dylan.

"Thirty dollars," informs the cashier.

Dylan takes out a fifty and plops it down. The cashier presents each of them with a purple ticket, a Museum map, and gives Dylan his change. Brenda grins at the small piece of paper.

"You're like Charlie Bucket getting the golden ticket," remarks Dylan.

"It'd be fun to be big enough to be immortalized in wax," says Brenda as she reads the map. "And look, they put little blue dots on the actors' faces so the fake features will be similar."

"That's a lot of time doing nothing," shrugs Dylan. "But yeah, it'd be pretty cool."

After showing their tickets, they walk smack into a room full of legends new and old, movie characters beloved and feared. Classic rock plays as mirrors with strobe lights surround the wax figures, highlighting their curves, their crafted similarities to the real muses.

_Moving on the floor now babe, you're a bird of paradise_  
_Cherry ice cream smile, I suppose it's very nice_  
_With a step to your left and a flick to the right_  
_You catch the mirror way out west_  
_You know you're something special, and you look like you're the best._

Brenda claps her hands ecstatically. Madonna, in her cone bra, stands frozen to her left. James Dean pops the collar of his jacket in her direction. Elvis' solid hips stretch out as he silently sings in his sequined jumpsuit. Best of all, there's only two other people, probably tourists, circling the room. They can go as slowly as they'd like.

"I wish I had...," starts Brenda.

"Pocket camera," says Dylan, fetching a camera from his pants pocket.

"You're going to be in some of these pictures," insists Brenda.

"What are you going to do?" says Dylan. "Have me stick my tongue in Marilyn Monroe's ear?"

Marilyn, wearing her signature red dress, seductively leans over next to a beaming Shirley Temple with reddish brown ringlets.

"Let's do you and Rhett!" suggests Brenda.

She turns him towards a Gone With the Wind scene featuring figures of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O' Hara, or Clark and Vivien to name their portrayers. Brenda's watched the film at least once a year since she was ten. There was something so romantic about the relationship even if she had some issues with the era's social institutions. Plus, the beautiful costumes contributed to her love affair with it. Vivien is in a billowy green and light grey Civil War-gown and Rhett's in his trademark black suit.

"Don't people call this the greatest movie ever made?" says Dylan.

"That's up for debate," replies Brenda. "Though their love-hate relationship is one for the books."

"I prefer _When Harry Met Sally_," says Dylan. "Now _that_ was funny."

"Stop playing critic so I can take your photo," scolds Brenda playfully.

Dylan makes his finger into a moustache like Clark Gable's when the flash goes off. Brenda beams. That had to be a good shot. An employee wanders behind them as she heads to the wall.

"Pictures are okay, right?" asks Brenda.

"They're fine," says the employee. "Just don't get too close."

"How's this for close?" whispers Dylan, wrapping an arm around Brenda's waist.

While she would like to stay in Dylan's grip longer, she spots Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra garb and can't say no. Brenda positions herself in the same sleeky position as Dylan snaps away.

_Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand_  
_Just like that river twisting through a dustly land_

_And when she shines she really shows you all she can  
Oh Rio Rio dancer across the rio grande_

Brenda causes Dylan to pause at a beach setting where the Beach Boys have been immortalized, a happy-go-lucky Don Ho looking on. Dylan gives his shoulders a shimmy in the makeshift luau setting.

_I've seen you on the beach and Ive seen you on tv_  
_Two of a billion stars, it means so much to me -_  
_Like a birthday or a pretty view_  
_But then I'm sure that you know it's just for you._

"How low can you go?" asks Brenda, pressing the camera button.

"_And when she shines, she really shows you all she can_," sings along Dylan, managing to lean to his knees. "_You make me feel alive, you make me feel alive..."_

Chuckling, Brenda forces him to stand straight. They stroll past a series of villians: a nightmarish Freddy Krueger with bad skin; a demonic, diminuitive Chucky; Linda Blair as an exorcist's worst nightmare, congealed green vomit on her chin. Brenda's more interested in more realistic characters. Then, she stumbles upon a very important figure, a museum necessity as far as she's concerned.

"Judy Garland!" cries out Brenda.

True to form, Judy's decked out in her Wizard of Oz wardrobe, complete with ruby slippers. Her trio of travelling associates are accounted for. The Tin Man stands between the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion. Toto is off to the side, bearing his small teeth.

"I've literally watched this movie hundreds of times," shares Brenda. "The Tin Man was my favorite. How can you not love a guy searching for a heart he had all along?"

"_There's no place like chrome, there's no place like chrome_," jokes Dylan.

Brenda doubles into a laughing fit for a few seconds, accidentally dropping the camera near the exhibit. Dylan side-steps the velvet rope to retrieve it but an unfortunate mishap occurs while doing so. His mouth falls open as his foot sends something flying.

"Dylan, you kicked Toto into the Tin Man's crotch!" cries Brenda.

The employee glances over and Dylan manages to secure the dog before she notices anything is amiss.

"He's little," defends Dylan. "I didn't see him."

"I will always remember that," says Brenda warmly. 'I will always remember today. You didn't see the dog, but you did cheer me up."

Dylan brings her into a hug, Brenda letting her nose press into his chest, then slightly turning her head. A new crop of tourists enters. They're a family of four. A four year old girl grabs onto her father's hand upon spying the sinister Chucky. Her dad pats her back reassuringly.

"It's only wax, sweetie," says the father. "Nothing to be afraid of."

"He won't eat my brains?" says his daughter.

"He won't eat your brains," replies the father.

They were close, a good type of close. She can't help but imagine herself in the daughter's shoes. She would've been afraid if she came here too as a little girl. And, deep in her gut, she would have to confess that she'd probably turn to Jim instead of Cindy. He made the monsters go away at home whether they were in her closet or under the bed. It may be part of the official dad's job description. But things can't be that way anymore. She's grown and has to deal with the bad on her own.

_I tell you something, I know what you're thinking_  
_I tell you something, I know what you're thinking_

"Doesn't she know only zombies eat brains?" asks a smirking Dylan, peering down at Brenda.

Brenda wipes her eyes, trying to delay any coming tears.

"You're thinking of your dad, aren't you?" says Dylan.

"I don't want to be reminded of him," admits Brenda. "Everything...just does. I can't control it."

"You aren't supposed to control it," sighs Dylan. "You two are supposed to make up."

"Dylan, it won't work," chokes out Brenda as the tears break through.

"Why wouldn't it?" says Dylan. "Look, we've all said stuff we didn't mean. Or maybe we meant it, but not the way we said it. The point is...you can stay with me if you have to. I'd like that. I'd like that _a lot_. But Bren, I couldn't live with myself if every night there was an unhappy one for you."

"I _am_ happy with you," insists Brenda.

"I just want you to be happy when we're not in the same room, too," says Dylan.

Lifting her sight upwards, she shakes her head repeatedly. If only her father didn't frustrate her so much. If only Jim got that caring about Dylan didn't result in caring about her father less.

"He has today off," shares Brenda. "I could talk to him this afternoon. That kinda disrupts your fun calendar day, though."

"Luckily," says Dylan, kissing her brow. "Calendars have lots of days."

IV.

"Twelfth floor," says the bellboy. "Executive suites."

Kelly follows Brandon out of the elevator, the nicely carpeted corridor empty. Brandon tips the bellboy who seems pleased by the amount. Wow, executive suite. She's stayed at first-rate places before but not for free.

"Twelve seven five," reads Brandon, flipping the room key in his grasp. "Fancy digs, eh, Kel?"

"It's almost like the Chancellor granted a wish," says Kelly.

"Didn't I tell you I'm a genie?" says Brandon, releasing the handles of the luggage. "Open sesame."

He puts in the key and pushes the door open.

"Shazam," kids Brandon.

"I'm impressed," says Kelly.

"And you get two more wishes," adds Brandon. "Use them wisely. My power ends at midnight."

"Okay, now you're just mixing fairy tales," teases Kelly, dragging him inside.

As it turns out, there's no need. Nobody needed to be dragged into a place like this. The very large room resembles a penthouse living area with a couch, several expensive chairs, a large TV, and a writing desk. A tidy kitchen space stood between the living room and a bedroom area. Kelly can see the Washington D.C. skyline from a wide window beyond the beds. To the right of the kitchen, Brandon and Kelly find the bathroom area, including a staple that certainly wasn't in their "lowly" Task Force-related quarters.

"Hot...," begins Kelly.

"Tub," finishes Brandon. "I can never look at the Chancellor the same way again. I'll go carry in the bags."

Kelly goes to put the sandwiches on a couple plates, running the events of the day in her mind. What stood out even more are the words Brandon attached to them. He wasn't anything less than sweet to her. Those girls didn't matter in the long run; Brandon did. He knew every part of her and who could be a better judge of character? It's certainly not Clare, who's in for a wild night in the slammer. She giggles into the sandwich bag.

"What's so funny?" says Brandon, returning to the kitchen.

"Nothing," says Kelly. "Ummm, did you pack a bathing suit?"

"For what?" answers Brandon, then after a beat, "Of course I did."

She slides a sandwich towards Brandon. Kelly picks up hers and chews thoughtfully.

"Are you going to reveal why you asked that question?" says Brandon, biting into his.

Letting a tomato slice fall to her plate, she provides no response.

"Did you bring a bathing suit?" inquires Brandon.

"For what?" says Kelly.

"Cause you're the perfect size for that hot tub," continues Brandon. "It's a crying shame you didn't."

"Especially since I have this nice shapely, white two-piece tucked away somewhere," says Kelly. "Yep, it's a shame."

"Maybe if you unpacked, it would magically be there," says Brandon, finishing his sandwich.

"I can't make any promises, genie," sighs Kelly. "But...I'll check."

Brandon offers her a grin as she walks out. Of course she packed a bathing suit. They're some of her favorite outfits in the world. Kelly lugs her suitcase to the bathroom. Tomorrow may be disappointing like today was...however, tonight is simply the two of them. A person who builds her up is with her. Being with somebody that values her is nudging her to value herself a bit more. Perhaps she can get to that point one day by herself but even if that happens, she'd still like to be by Brandon.

V.

Something's up. He closed the curtains, leaving Kelly in her robe on the balcony for a half hour. Thankfully the Washington D.C. weather is gorgeous. The car headlights resemble pearls from the twelfth floor, the red stop-lights like fuzzy rubies. Anything good could happen on a night like this. Kelly smiles in the dark. She's glad they didn't go. It's almost as if the city is saying hey, not so fast, we're better than you think. _You're_ better than you think.

The curtains part. Brandon's head appears.

"All ashore who's going ashore," says Brandon.

Kelly comes into the bedroom, Brandon closing the balcony door. He leads her to the bathroom. She walks into a sea of white tea-light candles, the hot tub full of bubbles and warm water. Brandon's in a pair of black swim trunks, more pleased than the tipped bellhop.

"That's where you were for thirty minutes," says Kelly, kissing him gently on the lips.

"That's where," confirms Brandon. "Though I had to sneak in the candles. And use most of the hotel matches."

"This is great," praises Kelly. "And I didn't use up more of my wishes."

"Oh believe me, this was my wish," says Brandon.

"Can I get in?" says Kelly.

"Yes, ma'am," says Brandon.

He helps her into the slippery hot tub until she's firmly stationed in a barrage of bubbles. A single bubble floats to her nose and Kelly giggles. She pushes some towards Brandon.

"I like the way you're wooing me, Walsh," teases Kelly.

"Well, I like the way you let me," says Brandon.

Brandon disappears. Kelly hears soft music playing in the background, assuming he's located a stereo in her absence. She takes in the flames' reflections on the water, the soft gleaming tiles of the bathroom walls. Brandon returns. A sponge is in his hold.

"Come on in, the water's fine," says Kelly, carefully putting her hair in an updo.

"No, you are _fine_," says Brandon, winking at her.

"You got that line from David," recognizes Kelly.

"Yes, I did," admits Brandon. "I'll do this instead of lame come-ons."

He runs the sponge along the length of her left arm. As the water trails down her skin, Brandon lets his lips trace the wet line until he reaches her shoulder. Kelly shivers, her heart trembling.

"This is your forte," whispers Kelly.

"You ain't seen nothing yet," whispers Brandon.

Brandon moves to her back, massaging one shoulder and then the other. Kelly stares behind her and smiles. Their mouths meet for a moment but Brandon stops to wash the center of her back.

"Better be careful," says Kelly. "A girl could get used to treatment like this."

"I'm available...for whenever," says Brandon. "Including anniversary parties."

"This can be our anniversary," offers Kelly. "Like when we officially began. What do you think?"

"I think that's a brilliant idea," says Brandon, then casually kissing her neck.

"I think I'm prune-y enough," says Kelly decisively. "And...I'm ready."

Brandon's mouth parts a bit as Kelly revolves to face him.

"Who would I be to deny...," begins Brandon.

"You won't," interrupts Kelly.

She lifts herself, maddeningly moving her lips with Brandon's until they're exchanging small kisses and chuckles on the way to the bedroom. They separate briefly so that Brandon can throw her a towel. As she dries herself, Kelly listens to the stereo, nodding her head to the tune.

_I'm mad about you_  
_You're mad about me babe_  
_Couple of fools run wild aren't we_  
_Pushing the day into the nighttime_  
_Somewhere between the two_  
_We start to see_

"Call me crazy, but I'm sure this played at the Spring Dance," says Kelly.

"Yeah," recalls Brandon. "Me too."

Brandon snaps his fingers, Kelly putting her arms around her shoulders and making him sway to the easy-going groove.

_Something 'bout you_  
_Right here beside me_  
_Touches the touched part of me like I can't believe_  
_Pushing the night into the daytime_  
_Watching the sky's first light_  
_While the city sleeps_

_Mad about you (Mad about you)_  
_Lost in your eyes (Reason aside)_  
_Mad about love (Mad about you)_  
_You and I_

"You're always trying to convince me to dance," sighs Brandon.

"It'll help me dry off faster," says Kelly.

"So will a bedspread," says Brandon.

They fall onto the bed, laughing, as the song ends. A burst of gravelly sound fills the airwaves.

"We could make love to static," suggests Kelly, shrugging.

"Oh, yeah," says Brandon. "Static really turns me on."

As if on cue, the static grows silent. Brandon sweeps Kelly's hair to the sides as easily as he pulled the curtains.

"Hey, you," says Brandon softly.

"Hey," repeats Kelly with a grin.

"Thanks for tracking me down," says Brandon. "Washington has been a blast, but this right here, is meant to last."

"Awww," whispers Kelly, stroking his bare chest.

"I totally thought that up in the elevator," reveals Brandon.

Kelly giggles, becoming serious after Brandon kisses her fervently. She stops to catch her breath.

"I adore you, Brandon," says Kelly. "Coming here? For you? That was easy."

"What I said in the garden?" says Brandon. "It's true. I am falling in love with you."

"That's what's going to make this even more special," whispers Kelly.

They sit up. Kelly undoes her hair to let it fall to her waist. Brandon carefully removes a condom from his wallet, sitting on the nightstand. He rejoins Kelly on the bed, but she turns away.

"My second wish is for you to untie this," says Kelly, gesturing to her bikini top.

"I live to serve," says Brandon.

He loosens the straps until the top falls into her lap. Brandon collects her in his arms, her head pressed into the pillow.

"What's your third wish?" wonders Brandon aloud.

"You," replies Kelly without hesitance. "You're my knight in shining armour, my boyfriend, and...most importantly, my friend. So it's you."

"My list for you is pretty long, too," assures Brandon.

"Tell me later," says Kelly, winding her legs around him.

He requires no further invitation, kissing and moaning on her neck as he slides her bikini bottoms along her legs. Kelly is further pressed into the sheets and holds him tightly against her. Her hands slowly yank off his swim trunks, eliciting a groan from Brandon. Brandon secures the condom, the sheets now in disarray. He runs his fingers along her stomach as his tongue finds the inner recesses of her mouth. His touch passes freckles, her bellybutton, her thighs until both their brows are covered in sweat.

"I'm falling so much in love with you, Brandon," sighs Kelly.

With a swift motion, Brandon's on top of her, the bedspread obscuring their bodies from view. Kelly sighs into his mouth as she reacts to him, being a breath away from her, being inside of her. All she can focus on is him above her as the end nears.

"Kelly," breathes Brandon, then mouthing it silently until their eyes close from ecstasy.

Tears house themselves in the corner of her eyes but she's aware they're there because of a good reason. This is different. This is exposure that she enjoys, a consummation with a guy that cares for the complicated and not so complicated parts of her. Finally.

"Ah," sighs Brandon as he rolls to the other side.

"Ah is right," sighs Kelly.

"We should definitely do that again," says Brandon, nodding enthusiastically and gazing her. "Cause...yeah."

"Brandon?" says Kelly.

"Uh huh?" says Brandon.

"That was worth the trip," teases Kelly.

She snuggles closer to him, resulting in them breaking out into a smile at the same time.


	11. Promise of a New Day

**XI. Promise of a New Day**

_Eagle's calling_  
_and he's calling your name_  
_Tides are turning bringing winds of change_  
_Why do I feel this way_  
_The promise of a new day_

_The promise_  
_The promise of a new day_  
_as thru time_  
_the earth moves_  
_under my feet_  
_one step closer_  
_to make love complete_  
_what has the final say_  
_the promise of a new day_

_And so time over time_  
_what will change the world_  
_no one knows_

_so the only promise_  
_is a day to live, to give_  
_and share with one another_  
_see the wisdom_  
_from mistakes in our past_  
_hear the younger_  
_generation ask_  
_what has the final say_  
_the promise of a new day_

_And so time over time_  
_what will change the world_  
_no one knows_  
_so the only promise_  
_is a day to live, to give_  
_and share with one another_

**Promise of a New Day is the property of Paula Abdul.**

Arm across arm, shoulder to shoulder, ear against ear, Brandon refuses to roll over, break from Kelly in his hold. If he does, last night will seem further and further away. No mistake but a memory. Hundreds of positive adjectives could've been used to describe it: beautiful, tender, momentous, thrilling, warm. The warmth of their skin meeting put him at ease. It was familiar but simultaneously new. The tangle of their limbs excited him. It was passionate but had a calm control attached to it. The beating of their hearts encouraged him. It was scary but that turned to fearlessness. So he isn't in a rush to stir as sleep abandons him.

Kelly's less lazy. Her blonde bangs sway as she brushes her lips against Brandon's neck, her blue eyes closed.

"Who needs California?" mumbles Kelly.

"Movie stars, sunny weather, Olympic-size pools," sighs Brandon. "A bunch of meh."

"Are we trying to convince ourselves that we shouldn't buy an airplane ticket today?" wonders Kelly.

Brandon traces the gentle contours of her left thigh through the blanket. "We're trying."

"If the Walshes go postal that I kept their son in D.C.," says Kelly. "I'm blaming the Chancellor."

"Yes, always blame the Chancellor," says Brandon, grinning.

Kelly beams and plants a kiss on Brandon's mouth. He can already tell. Kisses from Kelly will never get old. But reality is calling, like an overprotective mom when you're at summer camp.

"Question," says Brandon. "What did you tell your mom and roommate about this trip?"

"Don's in on the lowdown," replies Kelly. "My mom..."

Several rings cover Kelly's answer, the hotel phone showing a red light under the word "alarm." Brandon and Kelly trade weary glances.

"Brandon, what time did you schedule the airport taxi for?" asks Kelly.

He consults his watch, and then hops out of bed. Seriously? They slept in this late? Procrastionation. A college boy's worst enemy.

"Nine-thirty," replies Brandon, kicking his suitcase open with his foot. "And it's now nine-twenty."

"Shoot!" cries Kelly. "We're going to have to book it like a model backstage at a fashion show."

"Wha?" blanks Brandon.

"Hurry!" commands Kelly, tossing the blankets off her body.

Brandon would love to admire the view but he's busy throwing in dress shirts, pants, and underwear. He should've arranged a wake-up call. That's what his father did on business trips. Locating clean pants, he unbuttons them and manages to put his left leg inside. But the universe is adamant that he be tardy, resulting in a ring from the hotel phone.

"Jacques," guesses Brandon. "Thanks for waking us up."

"Who's Jacques?" asks Cindy Walsh innocently.

"Mom!" cries Brandon, casting an alarmed look at Kelly.

Her jaw drops as she fastens her bra.

"Is somebody there with you?" asks Cindy.

"Nah," says Brandon, hopping sideways as he attempts to get his right leg in without much success. "I was just talking about my roommate."

Ugh, if only Kelly's roommate Donna called. Then they wouldn't be in this pickle. Pickle? He must be stressed.

"I thought you had a single," says Cindy.

"Me too," says Brandon. "Change of plans. They probably pulled a fast one over on Al Gore concerning his sleeping arrangements too."

Cindy giggles. "Oh, I'm sure he'll eventually win regardless. What are they going to do? Elect another Bush?"

Brandon gets his right leg inside, but totters onto the bed. He proceeds to zip the pants and begins to wrestle with his belt.

"We'll see," says Brandon.

"Well, we miss seeing you," says Cindy. "You're coming in this afternoon, right? We're eager to hear what happened."

"And I'm eager to share," insists Brandon.

Kelly darts out of the bathroom, toiletries in her grip. She sticks Brandon's toothbrush, covered with toothpaste, between his lips. He takes it out, stares at the bristles. Kelly already has on a light blue dress and matching sweater. Who is this girl? The Jackee Joyner-Kersee of getting dressed? Bad thought since Kelly's own cellular phone rings, and it doesn't take him long to comprehend who's on the other end.

"Jackie!" whispers Kelly, confirming Brandon's suspicons, then louder. "No, Mom. I don't think pink makes your cheeks look fat."

She returns to the bathroom, exasperated.

"Your father and I will be home," says Cindy. "Brenda...the verdict's still out."

"Don't go arranging anything for me," says Brandon.

"Nonsense," says Cindy. 'I'm cooking your favorite dinner, and we'll head to the Peach Pit for dessert."

"Can't say no to sugar or bothering Nat," surrenders Brandon. "Can you hold?"

Brandon retrieves a T-shirt to match his slacks. Figures the first day he's not wearing a suit he has to sprint for the airport taxi. Kelly walks to her nearly full suitcase, sets in the souvenirs she bought.

"Bill Clinton didn't hit on me," insists Kelly, draping a tie around Brandon. "How do I know? Cause I would, Mom."

He gives his teeth several, careful brushstrokes and spits into the sink. Then, he packs the tie, the rest of his clothes, and tucks the Task Force folders into a briefcase by the TV.

"Take the lipstick away from Erin before she eats it, alright?" says Kelly, jumping and getting on both her heels while talking. "I've got to go."

Brandon's impressed. No falling on the bed for her. Well, not since last night. Kelly clicks the phone off.

"She saw us on TV," explains Kelly.

"Huh, I wonder if my parents did," says Brandon. "Oh!"

His mother was waiting patiently on the other line. Brandon slid along the bed and rested the receiver against his face.

"Airport taxi's almost here, Mom," says Brandon. "Don't want to delay my homecoming."

"Got it," says Cindy. "We love you and we're proud of you. Safe flight."

"Love you, guys, too," says Brandon before the dial tone sounds.

Returning the phone to his hook, Brandon finishes getting dressed, mourning the lost chance for a shower. Kelly grabs her suitcase handle. They take a last scan of the room and link arms.

"Promise we'll come back someday?" says Kelly sadly.

"Promise," says Brandon as they head for the elevator.

The elevator opens and they board, suitcases in front of them. Brandon wraps an arm around her, not as carefree as it was awhile ago, yet comforting all the same.

"Is it just me or do our families have two totally different types of conversations?" says Brandon.

II.

She's going if she can muster the courage. Maybe she should consider that every great, history-changing clash has a last stand: General Custer, the battle at Thermopylae, the Alamo. All against the odds, and all rife with consequences. But the end game was always freedom. Brenda is just hopeful that her freedom won't end in a grudge match, or bloodshed. No, her dad and Dylan aren't that savage.

Instead, they yell and make threats, which can be ten times worse if they cost you an education. She can't open with that, can she? Dad, thanks for putting me in limbo regarding London but I forgive you. The truth is she doesn't forgive him. Brandon would never get an ultimatum and Cindy would never put her in that position. It was because she specifically chose Dylan. On the other hand, sometimes her father let his temper overrule his heart. Brenda wasn't a wallflower and knew which buttons to push. The pushing of buttons had been going on for years. Plus she did lie, sneak out, and coerce Donna into her master plan. The direct approach might fare better.

Brenda shifts under the cab's seatbelt. Suddenly she feels more restricted than ever, especially as the car nears the Walsh home. One o' clock. They'd both be there. Brandon was getting in today too. Yep, her brother who could date anybody he wanted without facing a firing squad. She's lucky Dylan isn't with her because she's pretty sure Jim had already loaded the guns.

"Home sweet home," says the cabbie, pulling to the curb.

Oh, the irony. Brenda slips him the fare and slides out. The cab isn't the only foreign vehicle around. Before Brenda can go up her driveway, a burly man, wearing a grey suit, exits a green car. Pretty warm to be wearing a full suit, notes Brenda. He has black hair with grey sideburns and carries a clipboard.

"Excuse me, miss," says the man. "I'm collecting signatures to restore film landmarks on Mulholland Drive. Our foundation will meet the total number of signatures. Can you sign in order to save Hollywood history?"

This is weird. Usually, solicitors came on weekends and not by themselves.

"Which foundation?" asks Brenda.

The man releases a hearty chuckle. "Why...the Hollywood Wax Museum, of course."

"I just came from there," shares Brenda.

"Fancy that," says the man, giving her the clipboard. "Now about that signature?"

"Anything for the arts, right?" says Brenda, taking the pen.

Hmmm, the form appears to be official. She scrawls her name, the first to do so, and a pledge of fifty dollars in parantheses. That could restore a piece of patio furniture at least. She, unfortunately, can't offer more. Her funds are limited.

"Hopefully that's enough," says Brenda.

"That's enough," says the man, grinning widely. "Fifty bucks? Well, we have your address. The Museum thanks you. Come and see us again some time."

"Bye," says Brenda.

Going forward, she glances behind her. The man is still looking at her. She figured he'd be walking to her neighbors by now.

"I'm sorry," offers the man. "You...have an unforgettable face."

"Flattered," says Brenda, cautiously. "I think."

Careful not to offend him, she speedily opens the house door with her key. Brenda was in classes or play rehearsal during the year but was struck how quiet her home could be during the summer. In high school, their house contained constant noise. Either she and her girlfriends were going upstairs or Brandon and his "bros" were coming downstairs. Then, rarely did a week go by without a group activity ending in drama. The Walsh house remained a safe house anyway. Perhaps her parents being from small-town Minnesota brought some peace to the lunacy of L.A. Brenda can _safely _say that this was a soft place to rest her head when her world was falling apart.

Chatter from the kitchen kills the quiet. Brenda recognizes both her parents' voices. She isn't able to distinguish the words from the foyer, however, forcing herself to walk into the living room, closer but far away to hear what they're saying.

"Are you sure that's how she'd react if I went to pick her up?" sighs Jim, as coffee's being poured. "You know how eighteen-year old girls are."

Wait. They're discussing her? Her father missed her? Brenda smiles as she passes the couch.

"I was one," says Cindy. "Nothing's changed. Well, except for less flower and 'let's get groovy' T-shirts. Don't you want Brandon to see her when he comes home?"

"Maybe Brandon can drive her?" mentions Jim.

Kelly. Really? No, really? They're talking about how driving Kelly from the airport would embarrass her or trying to guess if it would inconvenience Brandon? What about her inconvenience, the fact that she may miss out on the best opportunity life has given her? Who cares about giving out rides? Brenda's hands curl into fists, hit her thighs.

"From Dylan's to here?" says Cindy. "He'll just be getting in, Jim."

Brenda closes her eyes. She's more confused than ever.

"Doesn't she get that it hurts me every time she's with Dylan?" asks Jim, disappointment in his voice. "He wrongs her and I don't. What does that say if she chooses him?"

Okay, not so puzzled. Brenda unfurls her hands, leans against the living room wall near the kitchen. If you asked her, she'd claim to be about two feet tall at this very minute.

"She appreciates what you do for her, sweetie," insists Cindy. "But she doesn't appreciate what you do to interfere with her decisions. And Dylan's grown up since West Bev, hasn't he?"

Expecting the impossible, Brenda crosses her fingers. Yes. Admit it, Dad.

"I've seen no proof," says Jim. "I don't want them together. Particularly if crooked people like Kevin glom unto him."

Cindy laughs. "When's the last time you used the word glom?"

"Now, apparently," says Jim, joining in the laughter too.

Speaking of now, if she's going to make that last stand, catching them in a light-hearted moment is the best way to go. Brenda pockets her keys and walks slowly into the kitchen. A startled Cindy nearly drops the coffee pot on the floor and Jim spits a bit of brew into his cup. Brenda shrugs.

"I'm here," announces Brenda. "Apparently."

"We're glad," says Cindy, eyes shifting to Jim for an agreement.

"That's what it kind of sounded like," says Brenda, her own eyes shifting to her father. "I...can leave, though."

"And take one of our cars?" speaks up Jim. "No sense in wasting our gas."

Jim opens his mouth to say more but lets the words disappear into his coffee-soaked throat. She'll run with it, accept what's underneath, an indication that it's better to stay.

"I made mistakes last night," says Brenda, standing across the table from Jim.

He grins sheepishly, sits upright.

"But nothing I said was a mistake," continues Brenda.

The grin hides, in a place Brenda isn't able to find it. She turns to an attentive Cindy.

"Mom, you said Dylan grew up," says Brenda. "So have I."

"Based on your behavior last night, you haven't," interjects Jim.

"If you don't believe I have, then why are you letting me go to London by myself?" asks Brenda.

"Dylan was insistent that he was going with you," says Jim. "I am not paying for a pre-honeymoon package when you should be focusing on your studies and not the guy who cheated on you."

"Dad, we can't fix the past, okay?" exclaims Brenda. "We can move on, though."

Folding his arms, Jim stares at the table top. What happened to the guy who was weighing whether to ferry her home today? Can he blow hot and cold that easily?

"But you're not letting me," says Brenda tearfully. "Because of your own pride. I have dreamed about studying in London since they told me about the program. I memorized the city theatres, chose the plays I'd audition for and invite you to if I was cast, practiced who I'd thank if I ever got a bio in a program. And you two were always at the top of my thank yous."

Cindy puts a hand over her chest and Jim's arms find his lap. They're listening. She's got to take this, say this.

"And you're taking those opportunities away from me, what could determine my future?" continues Brenda. "This decision is deeper than Dylan, Dad. If I have to, I will work every day and night to graduate, take out loans, skip meals..."

"Jim!" cries Cindy.

"I'm hearing her, Cindy," assures Jim.

"You better!" exclaims Cindy. "This isn't for show. She means it."

"Of course she means it," says Jim, standing and pushing in his chair. "Because she's my daughter."

The kitchen goes quiet again, momentarily. Brenda's stomach churns a mile a minute. She wasn't sure her sincerity would go through, what with a few instances of "drama queen antics" gone awry when she was younger, but it made an impact judged on the hug Jim provides her.

"Bren, I don't want to dim your dreams," says Jim as he strokes her hair.

Shivering slightly, she hugs him back, the bright lights of the kitchen surrounding her wet eyes.

"I was upset, punishing you for my own purposes," admits Jim. "You deserve your dream as much as anyone, more in fact. I want you to have those thank yous, those standing ovations."

"Thank you, Dad," sighs Brenda.

She pulls out of the hug and wipes her cheeks. Jim warmly pats her shoulders.

"Besides," says Jim as he puts his coffee cup in the sink. "I was punishing the wrong person."

Brenda rubs the lines appearing on her brow. "Huh?"

"If Dylan's so grown up, he can prove it," says Jim, rinsing the cup. "He should come apologize to me, and explain to me what he's going to do in England. Show he won't be bumming around. That way he won't find himself in trouble."

"Well, will you apologize to him?" asks Brenda pointedly.

"I don't have to," remarks Jim.

"Jim!" cries Cindy. "You're the adult. Honestly."

"No, I'm the concerned father," says Jim. "It's a simple demand, Brenda. I can't see that he's changed unless he's willing to be in my presence with a cool head."

"Dylan can be very cool," says Brenda, meeting her father's gaze.

"Good," says Jim. "Does he have plans today? Let's do this properly."

"Give me a sec," says Brenda.

She not so gracefully walks to the phone, punches the numbers like they've done naughty things. Her father's the person acting mischievous. This isn't fair to Dylan. He'll arrive at their house, apologize, and not receive an apology in return. Maybe if she gets him here her father will cave but she doubts it. Only one way to find out. And she found the answer to her question. Her father can blow hot and cold...in a blink.

III.

"Who's bad?"

The miniscule Michael Jackson finishes with a moonwalk, then a convicted "_He he_!" Dylan goes by bearing an amused smirk. Even kids want in on the act. The boy is greeted with a series of high-fives. Wannabe Michael has retired for the day. The wax museum is still up and running at one-thirty but he isn't certain about the working order of the Walsh family.

He did his best to sound optimistic when Brenda was standing opposite him. Dylan definitely meant it when he said her dad would fold for his little girl. But what's been plaguing him ever since she left is the fact that he can't change Jim's mind about him in a day. That truth presented itself to him time and time again. Facts are facts. Jim Walsh did not like him. He didn't even tolerate him anymore. Consequently, Dylan may have to let Brenda go to England by her lonesome. The idea is torture to think about, bitter to live with, but necessary to understand. Brenda needs London as much as he needs her: the bright outlook, the beneficial lessons, the incomparable reward. That's London for her and Brenda to him. Strive to be the best for Brenda, or have the best in his case.

What's another summer in California if Brenda's education is fully funded? What's another night of loneliness when Brenda's gaining dozens of admirers and selling out theatres? What's a broken heart in Beverly Hills if the Walshes get fixed? He's surprised...surprised he can shrink himself and not be as selfish as he wants to be. But if Brenda dangles that chance in front of him, despite what happens, he'll be a giant and carry their problems on his backside. What's another problem when they've been through the worst?

Dylan cracks open his wallet. He vowed to buy something for Brenda since it was a short-lived visit. They had fun...might as well commemorate it. He also narrowed his selections down to something that Brenda wouldn't expect. She could use a pleasant surprise. He ignores several snowglobes with the Marx Brothers pratfalling, the _Sound of Music_ kids running on a mountain, and Steamboat Willie presenting his butt to viewers. The novelty shirts were trying too hard with their infamous dialogue: _We're not in Kansas, Anymore; E.T., Phone Home; Beauty School Dropout_. If Dylan got that drop-out shirt for Brenda, Jim would flip. Point there. Nah, don't poke the bear. Dylan stifles a snicker, stopping near a row of bobbleheads.

He could buy a trinket for Erica as well, assuming they locate her. A large part of Dylan craved going to the station and shaking Jonesy until he told Dylan what was up. The more reasonable sliver told him it was way too early to annoy police headquarters. So yep...tomorrow? Tomorrow, vows Dylan inwardly.

"Hi," says a sweet voice below him. "Can you pay for my Dorothy?"

A five-year old, rosy-cheeked and a redhead, holds a Wizard of Oz Dorothy doll.

"Hi," greets Dylan. "Um, where's your mom?"

"Don't know," answers the girl. "That's why I ask you. It's okay if you don't. I take from store."

The little girl's features start to quiver. Please don't let this kid cry herself into a fit.

"Well, you gotta pay," insists Dylan. "What if we make a deal? I'll pay for Dorothy if you help me pick out a present for my sister and girlfriend."

"Deal," replies the girl, perking up.

Dylan scans the shelves of bobbleheads. There was variety. Brenda might get a kick out of these nodding characters, and he knows Erica would.

"Erica's a few years older than you," shares Dylan.

"That's not hard," says the girl. "I have an older sister and she likes Batgirl."

Batgirl is to his left. She has a black, painted on superhero suit. He'd like Brenda to wear one of those, but he's not saying that out loud.

"Now my girlfriend Brenda's around my age," mentions Dylan.

"That's ollivous," says the girl, clearly meaning obvious. "Older girls like other pretty girls that fall in love with fancy men 'specially princes."

His eyes leap from Princess Leia to Princess Diana, remembering that the latter was actually married to a prince. Also, if his memory is serving him right, Cindy was also a fan of hers.

"She's going to London, so Diana it is," says Dylan, fetching the item.

"Candice!" calls a voice from the gift shop entrance. "Candice!"

"Mommy, I'm here by the heads!" shouts Dylan's shopping partner.

"I told you not to wander," moans Candice's mother. "Sir, was she bothering you?"

"Not at all," replies Dylan. "In fact, I owe her for the doll. She's been helping me shop."

"Oh, sir, we couldn't," says Candice's mother.

"Yes, you could," says Dylan. "I insist."

"That's kind of you," says Candice's mother, blushing.

They gather at the cash register, Dylan purchasing the gifts. Candice gives him a hug and waves good-bye. The mother and daughter move towards the lobby. He'll exit through the gift shop door instead of the main lobby. Foot traffic has increased and he wants to hear the car phone clearly if Brenda has left him a message. Dylan's almost out of the shop when he hears his name over the loudspeaker. He's being paged? Dylan jogs to an employee seated at the main desk.

"Two minutes max," says the employee, rolling her eyes.

"Hello?" answers Dylan.

"Dylan, can you meet me at my house in thirty minutes?" says Brenda.

"Will they let me in?" kids Dylan.

"They will," guarantees Brenda. "It's pretty important. I tried your car phone earlier. Can you?"

"Sure," says Dylan. "How'd it go?"

"I can't go into it," replies Brenda.

"They're in the room?" guesses Dylan.

"Yep," says Brenda. "Sorry to blindside you...and brace yourself."

Dylan lifts his eyes skyward. "I'm prepared for the many daggers thrown by Daddy Dearest."

"See ya soon," says Brenda after a defeated sigh.

"See ya," says Dylan.

Thanking the employee, he makes a beeline to the gift shop, going into an underground parking lot. The lot may be designated for delivery vehicles but nobody's there and he can walk to his car without being caught in a crowd. His shopping bags graze his pants leg. The few lights on the walls reflect off the bag's plastic. Better than paper. Brenda would shake her head if he got paper bags, bobblehead inside or not.

A rectangular bit of light floods Dylan's sight. He holds a hand up to his forehead, then tries to slow the car down by gesturing. The speed of the car increases. Not any car. My car, identifies Dylan.

"What the?" shouts Dylan.

He barely dodges the car as he runs to the right, the tires squealing. Dylan wavers until he can stand straight. He did not visit the Wax Museum to be car jacked. Screw that. The engine roars. The light is obscuring the driver. He races ahead but the car's aiming for him again. All Dylan can hear is the rush of tires while trying to keep track of the blinding headlights. He rolls to avoid the fender sending him flying.

"You crazy?" exclaims Dylan, hitting the rear bumper. "Either get out or take the car and go!"

"Nobody's taking this clunker!" shouts the driver over the engine.

"What do you want?" yells Dylan.

The headlights go dark. Dylan swallows a lump in his throat.

"You off my boss' tail," says a gravelly voice, a man walking casually into the lot. "Or we'll stay on your tail."

He steadies himself. The man, housed in a grey suit, keeps walking to Dylan. Lighting a cigarette on the way, he snaps and four other men run to him within seconds. Dylan's pulse quickens. No weapon, no escape. All he can do is talk.

"If this has to do with Jack McKay...," begins Dylan.

"Shut up, kid!" interrupts the head guy. "That's why we're here. You dabbling in business where you shouldn't be dabbling. So I got paid to make your blood dribble on this pavement."

Okay, all he can do is talk and defend himself. Two men rush forward, Dylan ready, locking a head, kicking a crotch. But he's not anticipating the other two. A pair of brass knuckles kiss his cheekbones. Dylan staggers to the middle of the group. The men chuckle. Another man hits his back with a small bat, Dylan seeing white dots, yelling in pain.

"He's standing, Grady," says the man with brass knuckles. "Remarkable."

"Grady...since you're wearing a grey suit?" jeers Dylan. "That's pretty freakin' clever."

"Knees!" barks Grady.

The man who took Dylan's car for a joyride joins the festivities. He takes a pipe and bangs it against Dylan's left knee.

"Uhhhhhhhhh!" yells Dylan.

"You gonna listen or should we try to break the other?" says Grady, puffing smoke in Dylan's hair as he bends to the ground.

"What?" snaps Dylan, glaring at him as blood coats his brow.

"Kevin Weaver," mentions Grady. "You won't be searching for him or for your sister...nobody. Got that?"

"So Kevin's hiding behind muscle," seethes Dylan. "A rat in need of gorillas."

"Are you going to leave him alone or not?" snaps Grady. "Cause we can do this for hours. Til you're limp...or dead."

Two men are on Dylan, holding him against his car's fender. They're too strong to tackle. Sweat or blood, maybe both, drips down to his waist.

"No," says Dylan, a wave of pain flowing through his entire body. "I have somewhere to be!"

"Don't care," says Grady.

The fender guys swing him back and forth against the hard surface twice. Dylan's waist can't take much more. The pressure is excruciating. He should beg for mercy. But he can't cooperate, can't if it means losing Erica.

"I have a name on this sheet," says Grady, removing a piece of paper.

"I said I have somewhere to be!" repeats Dylan.

Into the fender his body goes. Dylan grits his teeth. What will Brenda think if he never gets there? He's reaching a point where he's unable to walk. Two more throws and he may be done for.

"We're discussing what _I have_," says Grady. "Don't interrupt. Or don't you want to hear how I got Brenda Walsh's name? Should I read her address too?"

Dude's done. Totally done. Dylan manages to wrest an arm free, almost charging at Grady, grabbing his tie until the guy with brass knuckles raps his jaw. Dylan's pinned to the fender and it seems like he'll be that way forever. He won't shut up after that threat, though. Not until he's breathless.

"Aaaaaah!" wails Dylan, biting into his lip, drawing blood. "Stay away from her or I'll run you over and dice up your body!"

"Easy, tiger," says Grady. "We only bother the pretty kittens if the big cats come out to play. Speaking of pretty kittens, you're going to stay away from Erica or I'll personally break the hand that wrote this signature and let dear sweet Brenda cry over your dead remains at the funeral. Clear as crystal?"

Dylan parts his mouth but won't answer in the affirmative. Erica's family. Erica's almost everything, but Brenda is the rest. Dylan hates that a tear slides on his nose. The men not pinning Dylan down laugh.

"How much you angling for, McKay?" asks the man with brass knuckles.

"What can you faux gangsters dish out?" yells Dylan.

"Don't answer him. You gonna answer me, chump?" says Grady. "Huh?"

He grabs the pipe, scaring the other man who's holding it. He slams it into Dylan's stomach, Dylan choking up blood, saliva, and who knows what else. He surrenders to limpness, lets his body slide to the pavement. Dylan can barely breathe in the dark. Hearing a faint snip, and a declaration of "it's dead", he's fairly sure they've cut his car phone line so they can flee without detection.

"I take pleasure in this," says Grady, walking in a circle around Dylan. "Because you never worked for your wealth. Not mere wealth but wealth out the wazoo. We're hip to the McKays...how shady ya'll can be. And we're supposed to feel bad that a middle-class man with a wife and kid is getting cash you don't deserve? After you threaten to kill him?"

"Screw...," breathes Dylan.

"Speak up, kid," says Grady, stalling by Dylan's chin. "Your last chance."

"Screw you," says Dylan as he stares at Grady's shoes.

Grady nods, takes the pipe, starts smashing the contents of the bags. Dylan can hear every break, every shattered part. But they're not as broken as him. Grady returns to Dylan and puts his shoe on Dylan's chin.

"You're going to wish you died instead of your old man," says Grady. "Contact Erica and we'll make a necklace for her out of your teeth. Job's done, fellas."

The men shake hands over Dylan. They shuffle out, clearly proud of what they've done. Dylan can only view the black bits in the lot's pavement after a minute goes by. They're covered by something red and sticky. Blood. His blood. Dylan tries to stand, wailing when his damaged knee makes itself known.

Imagine if they did this to Brenda, if they weren't lying. Brenda. Gotta call Brenda, thinks Dylan, dragging himself up by the fender. He cries, unbearable aches coursing through his body, puts his weight on the good leg. He spies a phone booth...next to the museum hours. He lumbers forward, threatening to topple at any second.

If people are staring at the welts, the stains, he doesn't notice. All that matters is that his fingers dial. Luckily, the door is open. He fumbles for two quarters. His hands shake as they go into the slot. He repeats the numbers so he won't forget. Don't forget.

"Bren," says Dylan, his finger above the last number.

That's when the world around him goes black. Simple, calming black. Dylan collapses in the booth, falling to the sidewalk amid several screams. A tiny "Mommy!" follows. Candice? Or an angel? Is this it?

"Oh God!" says a woman, possibly her mother. "Somebody call 911! Oh God! Is he breathing?"


End file.
